Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone
by NothingPretentious
Summary: Following the fall of Voldemort, it is up to the Gringotts goblins to carry out the terms of the Potters' will. What will happen when young Harry Potter - halfblood, Parselmouth, curse-scarred, outsider - is raised in the stalagmite city of Underfoot?
1. Chapter 1

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 1**

* * *

Badluk the goblin slit open the envelope with a tiny curved silver knife no larger than his thumbnail, and drew out the parchment from within.

It was unusual for the Manager of Gringotts' Inheritance and Contract Law Department to address the terms of a will himself. Even when the named executors were dead, that job would usually fall to one of the dozen goblins below him. Workers worked. Managers _managed_.

But Badluk had risen to the managerial position after forty years as a legal clerk. Those four decades had been spent dealing with irate wizards offering up challenges that ranged from the desperate to the bizarre. As a result, he possessed a level of cunning even beyond that of his fellow goblins. He had drawn on that cunning, and just a hint of intuition, when he had decided he would examine this particular will _personally_.

He flipped his jeweller's glass down over one eye, and observed that the wizards' identification magic was properly in place. He wafted the parchment over the magenta flames of the Truthfulness Torch mounted in his desk, and it was not burned.

Content that the parchment was what it claimed to be, he unfolded it, and began to read.

Ten minutes later, the goblin drummed his long, spindly fingers on the polished stone of his desk, staring at the opposite wall and thinking hard.

Just three nights ago, the Council of Counters had met on behalf of their constituents: the ten-thousand-strong Brotherhood of Goblins. The thirteen councillors had been extremely worried.

There had been rumblings lately that the Ministry would try to seize control of Gringotts during the war, and these rumblings had grown into thunderings, and then avalanches of rumour. Relations with the Goblin Liaison Office were worse than they'd been since its founding in 1865. Only the threat of open rebellion had kept wizard hands off the goblins' bank. In the last week there had been signs that even that might not be enough. The war against the Death Eater terrorists had been going so badly that the government was willing to do anything – _risk_ anything – to cut off their resources.

Then, just a few hours ago, word had reached the Gringotts Department of Information and Veracity that the instigator of this trouble, the Dark Lord Voldemort, was dead. Each of the departmental managers had learned of this immediately upon waking the next morning, in the pleasant gloom of Underfoot, the bastion of the goblin nation. Each of them had put on a similar expression of mild annoyance at the amount of panicked business that would surely eventuate, and hurried up through stone tunnels to the bank, to deal with the economic aftermath in their own particular area.

Manager Bogripple's sources tended to be eerily reliable. Those sources were soon saying that the Dark Lord had been improbably vanquished, at the hand of a one-year-old boy, whose parents had been slain just moments earlier.

The goblins had lost their bank to the Ministry once before, in the nineteenth century. The prospect of being drawn into a war over it had not been a pleasant one. Oh, they would probably _win_ that war, but it would not be without costs. The Brotherhood clearly owed the boy a great debt, and goblins always paid their debts.

But business came first as it always had to, and amongst that business was seeing to the last will and testament of Lily and James Potter, in the absence of a living executor. Normal processes had been hurried along a little, and the document had arrived in a clerk's tray from the filing vaults just before lunch. Badluk immediately appropriated it.

The will had been written only a year ago, after the birth of the Potters' son. Such was common amongst the older families. The terms of the document were quite clear. Each Potter would have acted as executor for the other, and now it was Gringotts' legal agents who were to carry out the clauses which covered the case of _both_ the humans' deaths. The key directive of these clauses involved the placement of their child in appropriate hands.

Badluk reached for the bronze speaking tube which led to the Department of Debt and Recovery.

* * *

With the faintest of sounds, two figures appeared in the dark suburban street.

One figure was very short, and one was very tall. Both wore heavy dark grey cloaks, with hoods that covered their faces.

The shorter figure released the arm of the taller. Each of them immediately looked swiftly about in opposite directions.

Grimcrok, Manager of the Gringotts Debt and Recovery Department, had recognised that this would be a unique assignment, and had ventured out with one of the few trustworthy humans in the goblins' employ, a wizard named Boris Scintillion.

The moment they had been notified, Manager Grimcrok's Department had conferred with Manager Bogripple's. They had called in all their seers, scryers, spies and wardbreakers. Their collective efforts let them locate Grimcrok's new charge in just short of fifteen hours.

It now took the pair of them approximately five minutes to find the right doorstep and lift the bundle gently from it, and then a few seconds later they were gone, just as the garishly-painted nails of dawn's pink fingers crept over the horizon.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore ran a weary hand over his face. He had been awake for almost three days straight, tying up the loose ends associated with the unexpected fall of Tom Riddle.

The Wizengamot would be meeting _again_ this afternoon, to process a slew of captured Death Eaters, and he had a personal appointment with the Minister before that. Dumbledore was no spring chicken, and he was feeling the fatigue of war. He would snatch a few hours of rest just as soon as he could get his Deputy Headmaster out of his hair.

"You're quite sure he'll be safe?"

Dumbledore looked at her with blue eyes that were tired and sunken. "Certainly. His mother had placed a powerful protective charm upon him. I raised wards, and wove that charm permanently into them, before I left. He'll be perfectly safe from anyone who wishes him harm, my dear. And he'll be out of the public eye."

"And you're just going to leave him with those ghastly muggles?" the old, severe-looking witch asked. "You know what I reported about them. There must be some other option. He might not have _immediate_ wizarding relatives, but there must be some on James' side..."

"The Blacks," said Dumbledore simply.

Minerva McGonagall's mouth snapped shut.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows at her. "As you can imagine, this solution might not be an ideal one – it may not be the _best_ place for young Harry to be raised, but..."

"No, I see," she said quietly. When the alternative was the Blacks...

The Headmaster sighed, and rose from his comfortable throne-like chair. "I took a few hairs from him. I'll raise the rest of the wards and traces now, to ease your mind."

The silver-bearded wizard went from table to table, fiddling with one bizarre device after another. He adjusted what looked like a television aerial badly wrapped in strips of velvet. He carefully set the hands on something akin to a clock mounted in a silver teapot. He tapped his wand against an agglomeration of springs and golden balls, which began to whirl and hum gently.

"There. Now I shall be instantly alerted whenever any magic is performed in the house, and also in the case that his new family mention him to the muggle authorities – for instance, if he goes missing. Any scrying spells attempting to locate him will be redirected to a fen in Ireland."

Minerva McGonagall bit her lip, watching the old man struggle into his travelling cloak. "You are adamant that nobody is to see him? Nobody from our world at all?"

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "When things are less tumultuous, I shall begin a discrete search for somebody willing to live nearby in order to watch over him. Perhaps a squib couple, or a retired witch or wizard. Ideally I should have someone in place by the time he is performing accidental magic. But the child is certainly safe for now."

* * *

"He is almost... a _sweet_ child," the goblin Sibilig sighed. "For a human, yes? And he could be such a useful tool for our people, too."

Badluk glanced up at his mate, concerned by a certain note in her voice. Their alliance of twelve years had been comfortable, but childless. Now she was considering the boy in his bundle of cloth with a strange expression on her face.

Badluk looked back down, and scratched the first name off the list. "And perhaps he will yet be, in time. I have heard rumours that the centaurs are drawing out his world-lines from the stars, and the scryers of the merfolk have been a-flurry about him. Whispers have come, saying that he is a _child of prophecy_ or a _vessel of destiny_."

The mocking snarl on his face made it clear what he thought about that.

Sibilig straightened up and looked across at the parchment on her mate's desk. "What is to be done with him?"

"The Potters specified his caregivers in the event of their deaths."

"Is that common?"

"No, although it is not unheard-of. Child placement is one of the few things the bloated wizard Ministry does not have a formal office for. I have seen more and more wills from wizards concerning themselves with the issue, because of the war."

"Hmmmm."

"There is rather more business in wills and inheritance across the board, actually," Badluk grinned, "With all these wizards killing each other off. I may have to request more staff."

"Good for business, yes?"

"Yes."

"So where is he to go?" Sibilig gestured, eyes fixated on the child.

"His grandfather is listed as the first to take charge of him, but the man died months ago, while the Potters were in hiding. There is a small vault for the Potter bloodline which could be contested, since the boy's father did not emerge to lay claim to it after his death. This new complication will tie the clerks in knots."

"So. Not his grandfather, then. No other immediate relations? Returned to the muggle family he was left with?"

"Not yet. Next on the list is one Sirius Black. Currently residing in Azkaban, as of just this evening, I hear. Indefinitely."

His mate narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "We owe no _official_ life-debt to the boy, but... it could be done."

"The ...criminal could be recovered for this purpose, yes, but he will not be. Cost notwithstanding, the document instructs us to abide by wizarding law 'where possible'."

"A difficult phrase."

"Yes."

"Yes."

"The will also instructs us to keep the boy _safe_ as a first imperative."

"Perhaps we will not give him to a criminal, then."

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps. Who is listed next?"

Badluk looked down at the list, crossing off the name _Sirius Black_.

"It would appear to be one Remus Lupin. I shall make discreet inquiries."

* * *

Cuthbert Mockridge stood nervously until his guest was seated. The moustachioed wizard had only just become head of the Goblin Liaison Office; his Gobbledegook was barely adequate, and he had only before met a few of the Gringotts Managers at his formal introduction.

"I have undertaken the investigation you asked for," the man said, after offering a few badly-accented pleasantries in the goblin tongue. "As a matter of public knowledge, I can tell you only that he was born in St Mungo's in 1960, has never worked for the Ministry, and his wand is registered."

Mockridge paused, then went on. "But there is information I can reveal to you, in your capacity as an appointed leader of the goblin nation, if you are willing to go on record as having requested and received it."

Badluk, in his cape of ebon and boots of blue dragonhide, made a show of considering the offer. Of course, he was already legally and morally obliged to ask for the information.

He set down the cup of disgusting wizard tea he had been offered. Quite a nice set of china, actually, given that it was made by clumsy human hands. "I am indeed willing."

Mockridge leaned forward. "Very well. Lupin is a halfblood. His wand is oak with a spun quartz core. He has no criminal record. He graduated Hogwarts in 1978 with five NEWTs. But perhaps of most interest to you, Remus Lupin is a registered werewolf."

Badluk raised his cup again and peered into it to hide his expression. Even _mentioning_ wands to a goblin was a gaffe, of course, but on the whole, he had found Mockridge rather pleasant. Stupid, perhaps, but eager to please. The Ministry did not _have_ to reveal this information; it was being given to him on the understanding that it would be used to protect the economy of wizarding Britain. Just one of those little unspoken deals on which the Ministry ran.

"Could I receive a copy," he asked at last, "Of the werewolf legislation which I recall was passed several months ago?"

* * *

"Well?" Sibilig pressed a cup of lime gall coffee into his hand.

"Promising at first, but non-viable."

"Why?"

Badluk narrowed his yellow eyes at her. "The information I have received about him cannot possibly be revealed to anybody for anything less than a true emergency."

"Oh?" His mate smiled.

"He is a werewolf."

"A great pity, yes. You have no sympathy there?"

"More than the idiot wizards do. Presumably the Potters knew of his nature when they penned their will, which ought to be enough, despite the danger he would present to a child if he did not take great precautions.

However. As with the criminal Black, he cannot adopt. In this case, due to official Ministry legislation. And we are bound to follow those laws. 'Where possible', see."

Sibilig frowned slightly. "Back to the muggle humans then, or does the list continue?"

"Well... it does. One more name before Petunia Dursley." Badluk glanced down at it once more, although he knew what was written there. He sighed. "Peter Pettigrew."

The other goblin cocked her head. "Isn't that..."

"Yes. Dead."

"I see."

Badluk sipped his coffee. "I will visit the aunt tonight."

* * *

The door slammed in Boris Scintillion's face. He stood there for a moment, and then walked back down to the footpath, where he was joined by his two superiors, both barely visible under notice-me-not charms.

The two goblins looked at the bundle still held in his arms, then at each other, and then up at the middle-aged wizard's frowning face.

"He is... not wanted there?" Badluk asked slowly.

"What did the muggle say?" asked Grimcrok.

The blonde wizard scowled. "She said, 'If there's anywhere he can go, anywhere else _at all_, then don't dump him on me.' When I hesitated, she booted me out."

"Scintillion. Were those her exact words?" There was the faintest note of something – something beyond simple interest – in Badluk's voice.

"Yes, sir."

"Bring us back to my office."

Scintillion fumbled out the talisman that let him Apparate through the wards of the outer Gringotts offices, waited for each goblin to grip his arm, and then Disapparated with a pop.

* * *

An hour later, the thirteen councillors of the goblin nation met around a large table of blue quartz in the depths of Gringotts. The quartz was filled with veins of gold, and the overall effect was quite lovely. It was goblin-crafted, of course.

Perhaps coincidentally, but almost certainly not, the thirteen members of the Council of Counters were also the thirteen departmental managers of Gringotts.

Gurmsalt the Wary, King of the Brotherhood of Goblins, Bank Director and High Manager of Gringotts, spoke above the hubbub of Gobbledegook.

"Badluk, show us the will."

The parchment was passed along the table, murmured over by clusters of goblins until it had done a full circuit.

"The terms are quite clear." This was Ziggiz, Manager of the Wizarding Law Department. "We abide by the wizards' little rules to the extent that we can. Which is to say, 'where possible'. In the event that none of the listed persons can take him, we are to house him with an appropriate family in Britain, ensuring _above all else_ that he is safe."

"Death Eaters have been escaping due justice in droves. The Ministry is diminished and corrupt, its best Aurors dead. Interest in 'The Boy Who Lived' is already escalating. I would venture the opinion that _no_ wizarding family in Britain could be considered safe right now."

The new speaker was Wurmspitz, a swift-tongued elderly goblin who managed the Diplomatic and Policy Department.

"An intriguing opinion. Coupled with the fact that both boy and will are currently situated in Gringotts itself..." the king shrugged.

The suggestion was clear. Underfoot, city of the goblins far underground, was held to only its own laws within the enclave walls. No wizard set foot in it, ever. The 1865 peace agreement extended some of this autonomy to Gringotts grounds, where the strange wizarding notion of personal property which could be _bought_ and _sold_ held sway, to the disgust of the goblins.

But the terms of the agreement also said that no wizarding laws established after 1865 applied within the walls of Gringotts. The bank was a sort of neutral territory, not quite fitting within goblin custom, not quite ensconced in wizard law.

There had certainly been no child placement laws before 1865. Inheritance laws, yes, but the child's _inheritance_ was not in question.

All around the table, goblins were smiling thinly. Most of goblin body language was in the teeth. Thin smiles with lips pressed tight over the teeth meant tentative agreement coupled with quiet satisfaction.

"Can it be done? There would surely be consequences." Grippflag, Manager of the Insurance Department, always made risk her first order of business.

Eyes turned to Bogripple, who ran the bank's Department of Information and Veracity, and knew more than anybody about the secrets of the way the wizarding world functioned. He thought carefully.

"If the Ministry were to become concerned with _any_ child, it would be this one," he said at last, looking across at the crib in the corner of the room. "But it would also be very, very hard to challenge our actions. They would have neither precedent nor due process on their side. We have the will, there are no other relations to claim him, and he can be raised in Underfoot where wizarding laws are nothing. Even quibbling about 'safety' would not change anything."

He turned to Grimcrok. "To be sure, we would need to acquire a Pensieve device and your agent's memories of the muggle aunt's refusal."

"They could demand his return," Gurmsalt said thoughtfully, "If the Ministry bent over backwards and one of the specified guardians became available."

"You are thinking of the werewolf Lupin, and the relevant legislation being repealed?"

"No. That would sit even less well with the public than having the boy in our care, I believe. I was actually thinking of Black."

There was a surprised susurration around the table.

Pogsheen, the young Manager of the Tax Department, spoke up. "I heard he was the parents' betrayer, on top of the murder charges," she said. "Even were the man released for a trial, he would certainly not be an immediate candidate for custody, regardless of his guilt or innocence."

"He would have no power over the placement of a child not already in his care, if awaiting trial," added Ziggiz.

"Dumbledore will surely become involved," Grippflag murmured.

Bogripple nodded. "But he has no legal standing. He has been ...quite reasonable to us, but his usefulness is slim compared to that of the boy Potter."

Heads nodded all around the table. Albus Dumbledore had a surprisingly amiable relationship with the Brotherhood of Goblins, helped by his mastery of their language and his employ of a half-goblin professor. But – even discounting the future _political_ usefulness of the Boy Who Lived – there had been strange rumours, murmurings in low places, arcane whispers of what the child might eventually become.

And, when it really came down to it, they were contractually obliged to ensure the infant's safety.

Badluk and Sibilig had been exchanging complicated glances since the meeting began. Now, Sibilig spoke up. "My mate and I shall raise the boy, if it is the Council's wish."

* * *

And so it was done, in dead of night and deed of will, amidst echoing stone halls, by parchment and promise and thoughts for the future.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ Well, we're off to a good start. This story is going to be rather long and richly detailed, focusing on the nature of magic as much as plot and action. Please read and review!


	2. Chapter 2

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 2**

* * *

The white marble façade of the Gringotts Bank building was a constant that had weathered centuries, but the vaults themselves were far from static.

At the bank's founding - an unlikely cooperative venture with the Welsh dwarfs - it had a single basement level with a modest dozen vaults. These were simply large safes, protected by dwarf-bolts and goblin guards, and muggles and wizards alike lodged their possessions and money with the bank. Everything was accounted for in great enchanted ledgers.

Over time, more space was added, the bank expanding to house more than fifty vaults. Eventually, the goblins needed to add an entire new level below the existing chambers, and numbered the new vaults from 200.

Over the eight and a half centuries since the time of Gringott himself, more and more vaults had been added, connected by labyrinthine paths, the occasional underwater passageway, and mining rails. The latest addition was the eighth level, numbered from 800. It housed two dozen vaults and had been put in place almost a century ago.

Richer customers requested the newer, deeper vaults, which had higher prices to reflect the additional layers of security that had to be passed to reach them. Each was protected by the defences of higher levels, as well as their own unique countermeasures.

Of course, the simplest Gringotts deposit box was the closest thing there could be to thief-proof, but by the time anybody even reached the six-hundreds level they would have passed through at least a dozen distinct forms of security.

The old Noble families who held vaults on the seventh level sometimes caught glimpses of recumbent sphinxes or blind, chained Ukrainian Ironbellies, as the carts rocketed past. The doors were covered with imp locks and dwarf bolts, and encrusted with trust wards. The chasms and cavernous plateaus of the seven-hundreds were patrolled by strange deathly guardians recovered from the tombs of Egypt, whose animalian heads turned full circles to watch the carts as they stalked back and forth.

Those select few witches and wizards who held vaults on the _eighth_ level didn't know exactly what extra protections were in place, but they were always escorted down by four goblins, rather than just one. Two of the goblins carried distinct keys, strange things of platinum and crystal. The other two carried short wooden staves and occasionally stroked or whispered to empty patches of air. The vaults were made of wrought goblin's silver, and hidden behind cavern walls, accessible only through doors of tempered blue unobtainium.

Below the eighth level was a great gate, wide enough for war trolls to march through four abreast, wide enough for the egress of huge goblin-crafted ships on log rollers. Such things had been seen, but not in living memory.

No human had ever passed through that gate, until recently.

On the other side of the carved stone barrier, the massive tunnel curved gently downwards, splintering at some points as lesser passageways split off from it. Deep, deep below the deepest basements of London lay Underfoot, the fortress-city of the Brotherhood of Goblins.

* * *

Badluk had been directed to take some time off and spend it researching the prisoner Black, to be certain that the human could have no valid claim to the Potter child.

Bogripple's intuition about the wizarding world said that there had been some special reason for the attempt to hide the boy amongst muggles. That meant they might have a few years of secrecy before his disappearance from the human realms was even noticed. If that were the case, the forces of social inertia would be on their side, possibly avoiding a confrontation entirely.

If not, he would see that schemes were schemed, and measures measured.

There was a single knock, and the dwelling door opened. Badluk looked up from his kitchen table at the flat-footed approach of Ziggiz. His fellow manager had been spending some extra time amongst his stacks of lawbooks, preparing the groundwork for a case in wizarding law, should that become necessary.

It seemed unlikely; any custody battle now that Harry Potter was actually _in_ Underfoot would drag on for many years. Special legislation would not reach him here, either. It would be quicker to send an army.

"Where's Sibilig?" the wrinkled older goblin asked, seating himself comfortably in Badluk's kitchen and plucking a cave pear from the bowl in front of him.

"Arranging a suitable nurse. She shall be back shortly."

Ziggiz, one of nature's bachelors, made a face. "The legal affairs are in order," he said. "I thought it best that you not file Ministry adoption papers. Your guardianship is already governed by Brotherhood common law for as long as the child's home is here, and the Ministry recognises our law within our domain. A convenient loophole. It is a discrete method, also."

Badluk expressed his gratitude with a nod, then sat back from his own stack of books and parchments, cracking his knuckles. He took up a large tobacco pipe, ornately carved from the horn of some great beast. His fingers flickered in deft movements as he filled it, tamped it, lit it, and brought it to his mouth.

"For my part," he paused and puffed ferociously for a moment, "I have found that anyone given a life sentence in Azkaban – without recourse to appeal, mind – becomes legally dead. It was difficult, but I have ascertained that Black does indeed fall into this category. His imprisonment without trial is very unusual, and muddies the appellate waters considerably."

"Despicable," the legal scholar muttered.

"Yes. Therefore, I drew his will, which he had filed with us half a year ago. It made for interesting reading."

"Oh?"

"The Potters stand to inherit almost everything of his personal fortune, with sums and certain objects put aside for Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew."

Ziggiz blinked, trying to place the names, and then caught on. "Ah. I see. Those four families are closely linked, then. Pettigrew is dead; have you yet reviewed his will, to see if the same names appear?"

"He did not file a will with Gringotts. It will be dealt with by the Ministry."

"Incompetents."

"Idiots."

"Is there anything else 'interesting' in Black's estate?"

"I should say so. He is the Black family heir, for one. Passed unto him by his brother."

"Politics." Ziggiz shook his head mournfully.

At that point Sibilig returned, cradling Harry, and her mate Badluk recapped the conversation for her.

"Politics," she said once he was done, and she shook her head, too.

"It gets worse."

"How so?"

"Being legally dead, the criminal's ridiculous wizard title of Lord Black – and the minute legal powers of the head of family – are passed on to the scion."

"Who inherits?"

"Harry Potter."

The three of them looked at the sleeping child held gently in Sibilig's thin, pale arms.

"He is already the Potter heir, waiting to become the next Lord Potter," Ziggiz stated with no particular inflection. "A notional title, of course."

"He shall have two seats on the Wizengamot," Badluk said, smiling craftily. "And it seems he will have an opportunity to become a Hogwarts governor by rights of his position as head of House Potter."

There were more speculative looks at the child, and Badluk continued. "The head of House Black holds several extremely archaic and largely inconsequential positions, also."

"Such as?"

"The Protector of the King's Seal, Marshall-at-arms of Aurors, Arcane Master of Noble Ceremonies, Lord Chancellor of the Scots Duchies... the list goes on."

"Do these sinecures have money attached?"

"It would appear so. However, most also have _strings_ attached. Many involve the stabling of horses. I have yet to explore the conditions fully, but a first glance says that House Black may have been right to ignore them for centuries."

"Are there... marriage contracts?" Ziggiz asked with a feeling of dread. These were pureblood wizards they were dealing with, after all. No inane or insane meddling was beyond them. And the child before them was the heir to _two_ so-called 'Noble Houses'.

"Fortunately not."

There was a short silence, as tobacco smoke drifted up to wreathe the luminescent fungi which grew in pots dangling from the ceiling.

"There will be a regent until he is of age?" Sibilig asked, staring down in fascination at the sleeping child's face. She was hoping he would waken and open his eyes again; they were a sparkling emerald green which was considered lucky amongst the generally yellow-irised goblins.

"Andromeda Black was named regent at the proceedings that imprisoned the former Lord Black, but she was absent from those proceedings. I do not think she will play an active role."

"And for the Potters?"

Badluk smirked, blowing a smoke ring. "Three guesses."

The two other goblin Managers glanced at each other.

"Andromeda Black again?"

"No."

"There is that connection in the wills... the Lupin man?" Ziggiz asked thoughtfully.

"No."

Sibilig and Ziggiz glanced at each other. There was only one _obvious_ answer.

"Dumbledore," they chorused along with Badluk.

"There are provisions to protect the family vaults from the regents, correct? I know nothing of this Andromeda witch," Sibilig said. "Nor do I trust Albus Dumbledore completely."

Ziggiz nodded confirmation. "There is likely no actual gold in the vaults. But one-thirtieth of an estate's estimated current value may be drawn per annum in the interests of managing said estate. Sixteen years at diminishing returns of twenty-nine in thirty means... at most forty-two percent total loss before Harry Potter reaches his majority."

Badluk leaned forward to stare carefully at the scholar of law. "Sixteen? You realise we are far from the world of wizarding rule here?"

Ziggiz slowly blinked, and finished the last of the pear before speaking. "You think that reaching his _goblin_ majority will be enough for the boy to receive his foolish titles?"

"And us to secure our position? I shall be interested to see," said Badluk, leaning back and grinning wolfishly.

"Yes."

"Yes."

* * *

Business came first in the goblin world, but eventually conversation moved on to more personal things.

Ziggiz spoke of a nice piece of amethyst his nephew had mined, describing it in great detail, and promised to pass on their suggestions as to how the stone should be cut.

Sibilig said she was considering approaching the Council to acquire more space for gardening; she was an avid grower of fungi and certain cave flowers, and contended that she could use the resources as well as anyone.

Badluk, who kept glancing at Harry, mentioned they were going to have to bring in some trained rock worms to gnaw away at the five-foot ceilings of their dwelling. Ziggiz and Sibilig exchanged amused glances and suggested the boy was unlikely to grow that tall within the fortnight or so required for the worms to do their job.

Ziggiz congratulated the goblin pair on the recent acquisition of their new names, an element of amusement in his voice.

Goblins all received a _glaumernom_, or secret name, at some point in their life. The true _glaumernom_ was to be spoken only in goblin circles.

The names came from the oldest form of Gobbledegook, and were generally based on great deeds or distinguishing features. Translations of such names, which were actually poetic descriptions, tended to be woefully inadequate. Goblins in history books were given clumsy English monikers such as Sugrak the Implacable and Milbwire the Ragged-Eared.

Badluk himself had been mildly amused to learn that, by a near-magical consensus within Underfoot, he was now Badluk the Careful, and his mate had become Sibilig the Caring. Apparently the deliberated introduction of Harry Potter into their home had become, within three days, the name-defining life event for each of them.

It wasn't bad news, really. Some goblins never got a _glaumernom_ until after they died.

Harry was a special case, of course, and there had been some arguing in the enclave as to what should be done about his future secret name. But custom clearly held that the _glaumernom_ was never bestowed before a goblin reached his Brotherhood majority, at the very earliest. And with a boy of such strange legacy, many felt that he would have to do something truly amazing before he was allowed his name at all.

Only a goblin could receive a _glaumernom_, of course, but that was not a point of contention. It was obvious that the boy would be brought up as much a goblin as any other in the Brotherhood.

* * *

Harry's first few years saw him quite sought-after in Underfoot, at least as a curiosity. His new parents never lacked for minders or helpers. Goblin society was communal, and this extended to a concept of family which gave Harry thousands of new relatives, drawn from the friends and cousins of his foster parents.

This was also partly to do with the Brotherhood's ideas on property. In goblin society, nobody at all could own the land or the resources within it, and the division of such resources was done equally according to who had the most need, and who could create the most profitable business or craft the most masterful work from them.

The maker of an object was its true owner for the duration of his or her lifetime, and could sell it or give it away, but upon the maker's death, it returned to the pool of common resources for all of the world's people. Thus there was no formal concept of inheritance, no enduring sale or purchase. Any object was only rented at best, for a period no longer than the lifespan of the original craftsman. After that it would become like any other resource, available to he who could use it best. In most cases, those to whom it held the greatest sentimental value – the families of the dead craftsman – were declared to have the right to it.

This was perhaps the most fundamental source of conflict with the wizarding world, and the reason why Gringotts was so carefully defined as neutral ground. The rift between beings had worsened throughout history, with wand bans, tacit bigotry, ancient debts still owed, and the violent suppression of rebellions.

Because of this, goblins valued cleverness; benignly outwitting somebody was regarded as a good thing and outwitting witches and wizards in particular was a cause for celebration.

It also meant that goblins everywhere in the country stuck together. They had their disagreements, of course, but conflict was subsumed by the bond of Brotherhood. The Council of Counters, who spoke for all goblins, had decided Harry Potter was a goblin. There could be no disagreement.

Thus Harry was watched by many eyes, some friendly and some calculating. He was cared for as an orphan, as a goblin in his own right, as the son of two respected managers, and as a curiosity – a human, rumoured to be a vassal of prophecy.

* * *

It was shortly after his third birthday that Harry brought the hatchling rock worm in.

Rock worms were pale, snake-like creatures with dragonish faces. They were harmless unless provoked, but grew slowly to immense sizes over their many centuries of life. Once upon a time, true wyrms had stalked the lands, the original great scaly beasts of legend. But these had died out after giving rise to many different strains of dragonish creature.

Most notable amongst these strains were the wyverns, sea serpents and true dragons, of course. The rock worms were much less well-known. They lived strictly underground, burrowing through stone and earth, feeding on nutrients and minerals by osmosis. Their legs were small, and their two sets of wings had adapted into scoop-like natural shovels, for burrowing. Only the younger ones could fly. The creatures could spit acid and see in the dark, and were intelligent enough to be trained.

Harry was holding a young rock worm, barely two feet long, in both hands as he stumbled into his parents' dwelling. Now he held it up to Badluk and beamed.

"I've a wum, da!"

The rock worm looked at the older goblin through slit eyes.

"Be careful," Harry's guardian cautioned, putting his pipe down ready to intervene if needed. "Animals are never toys."

"Wum already said, to not grip so tight. Wum is hungry. Wum can stay?"

Badluk gave the child a funny look. "The rock worm spoke to you?"

"Wum spoke to me! Wum say, I am the speaker! It's me!"

The rock worm raised its sleek head and hissed briefly.

"Wum say name is-" Harry concentrated - "Sssthsnnss. It means, pretty root. We can keep Prettyroot, da?"

* * *

After consultation with his mate, Badluk let the boy keep the animal. Then he researched what he had assumed was a most peculiar case of accidental magic. Snakes _weren't_ sentient, of course. Somebody would have noticed. Therefore, talking to them couldn't simply be a case of magic crossing a language barrier. To talk to a snake, you would have to first magically _make_ it intelligent.

The majority of goblins only had low level magic, the equivalent of what wizards called 'squibs'. Of course, with proper training and perseverance, they could become as powerful as a weak wizard, just as a human squib might, if they were allowed to try. And many goblin-charms were designed to work around a lack of power.

But still, there was quite a rift between the typical working goblin and the true sorcerer amongst their kind. Goblin magic-users were trained from an early age to use their powers properly. Their abilities generally developed more slowly and quietly than those of wizards and witches, and there were differences in their magic that Badluk found difficult to fathom, not being terribly powerful himself.

He was troubled to learn, after a long day busied amongst the books of the central Underfoot Library, that the boy was what was known as a Parselmouth.

The Parseltongue magic was part of the legacy of the four 'Hogwarts Founders'. Some of that ancient magic was used to make certain animals intelligent when they came into contact with magical beings. Hence the post owls and other animal messengers, now so vital to the mail system. Hence also other, more terrifying creatures, such as the acromantulas.

And hence Parselmouths. Regular snakes were uniformly deaf, and had no capacity to speak or understand. It was only the magic of Slytherin, passed down through generations, that let Parselmouths unconsciously raise the intelligence of snakes to the level of post owls or beyond, and converse with them. This much was not so much stated as implied in the various old goblin and wizard texts.

Goblins, unlike the vast majority of wizards, knew about statistics and thought about motives. Badluk reviewed the facts.

Fact: every recorded Parselmouth had been a dark wizard. Fact: the ability was passed down in the line of Slytherin. Fact: many would be uncomfortable with such an ability, and it was perfectly possible that some benign Parselmouths might keep their secret to themselves.

But considering the boy's legacy, his scar and the previous Dark Lord's capacity for speaking Parseltongue, this was something of a _major coincidence_.

Badluk shared his concerns quietly with his mate, as Harry played on his bed with the newly-named Prettyroot.

"We will bring in the curse breakers tomorrow, yes?" Sibilig said.

"Yes."

* * *

Harry had only been above ground level a few times in the last two years. He had only been out in the sunlight once, exploring a small amount of Diagon Alley under a glamour and in the company of Boris Scintillion, while two security goblins tailed them discretely. The nutrient potions the healers made him take stopped him getting sick from lack of sunlight, but the only tint to his skin came from the magical phosphorescences of the various fungi in the caverns.

He was old enough now to get excited about being in Gringotts, running in circles around the dark oak furniture and marble statuary of the room, watched by his amused rock worm friend and his concerned foster parents.

The default, cautious assumption which _anyone_ should arrive at was that Harry had somehow inherited a part of the Dark Lord's power, when the pair clashed several years ago. That would mean that at least some, and potentially a lot, of Voldemort was _in _him. And that meant the goblins needed to get his scar examined immediately.

The crackly voice of Shindig, Manager of the bank's International Department, rang outside the room. "This is a Gringotts secret, you understand. You are bound by goblin-oath not to reveal _anything_ you see or hear within this room. If you have a wish to not be bound by your oath today, step away now."

There were murmured voices, and then the door opened.

Harry had stopped running, and stood waiting at the sound of voices. Now he bowed politely, goblin-fashion, as Shindig entered the room ahead of two ancient-looking goblins, with a witch and wizard behind them. At the back of the group were two goblin guards, hands resting on sword hilts, who closed and locked the doors before turning back to scan the room.

The wizard stared in puzzlement at Harry, as the witch's eye sprang to the scar visible under the child's short here. "Good lord," she said faintly. "Harry Potter." The wizard started in surprise.

The two elderly goblins were the bank's chief curse breakers. They each carried a short staff capped with a brilliantly glowing gem, and their torsos were slung about with leather pouches and interesting tools.

There were many things goblins could not do efficiently – or at all – without wands. Because of this, they employed several witches and wizards in various capacities. A lot of Gringotts' business was tied up in curse-breaking and warding. Human curse-breakers were most suited to breaking human curses, and wand-based wizard wards complemented sign-based goblin wards nicely. Wizards also made good intermediaries in areas where species prejudice would otherwise be an issue. Perhaps most importantly of all, goblins couldn't Apparate, and couldn't easily travel through muggle areas, so wizards were vitally useful for fast transportation.

Two of the most senior humans in Gringotts' employ – both of them curse-breakers – were standing and staring at the Boy Who Lived.

Their goblin superiors ignored them. One went to speak to Badluk and Sibilig, while the other introduced himself to Harry and explained that they were here to make sure his scar wasn't causing any problems. The boy nodded solemnly.

The adult humans managed to contain their excitement for a few minutes before they were waved over, and Harry's guardians explained matters as they began to work.

Neither Ms Tollens nor Mr Brown were particularly happy that Harry Potter, who had vanished from the face of the earth after the fall of the Dark Lord, was living amongst goblins. Both knew better than to say anything, however.

Harry, for his part, didn't squirm, but sat and stroked Prettyroot, and watched the tall non-goblins with wide eyes. He knew that he himself was human, that his parents had died and the goblins raising him were foster parents, but he had seen precious few of his own kind before, except in pictures and that one terrifying time in the sunlight. Some of the stories told about humans were fearsome and terrible, others thrilling and exciting.

Ms Tollens and Mr Brown seemed nice, though. He split his conversation between them, the unfamiliar goblins, his parents, and his pet.

Several hours later, when they stopped to eat, the almost-four-year-old asked to see the witch's wand, which had danced elaborately in front of his face and made all sorts of pretty glowing shapes appear in the air over the last few hours.

She looked to Harry's parents for confirmation.

"If you are willing, Ms Tollens," Sibilig said, ill at ease.

"It is not a toy, Harry," Badluk murmured to him in Gobbledegook. "It is something akin to a _grisherur_, a work of great craft and personal importance. Be careful."

The witch passed it over, smiling, and Harry took it carefully. As his little fingers awkwardly grasped the wood, a fat blue spark leapt from the end, dancing across the oaken table for a few seconds before vanishing. His hand shook a little, but he did not drop the wand.

Harry looked up at his parents. He had followed their cues and spoken English so far, but now asked in Gobbledegook, "I can do wand magic?"

Ms Tollens was looking at her wand in bemusement. Mr Brown's eyebrows raised very slightly when he heard the Potter boy rasping in the tongue of goblins.

One of the older curse breakers snorted. "You cannot tell me you did not expect that," the goblin said to Sibilig. "The boy has power. I assume you are planning to allow him to attend Hogwarts, for which you would need to see about a _wand_ sooner or later."

Tollens and Brown gave each other embarrassed looks. Wands were always a sore topic for goblins, who had been banned from their use since 1631. The human Gringotts employees had learned never to even mention them if possible.

Sibilig exchanged a look with Badluk, then retrieve Ms Tollens' wand and handed it back to her with distaste. "We will consider it further."

* * *

The experts packed up and left later that afternoon. They had done all they could, determining that there was indeed a knot of power and memory lurking in the child's curse scar. They were fairly certain it belonged to the Dark Lord, and similarly sure that it was not sentient. There was something else there, though – something bright and sharp and metallic, a hint of blood magic that dissolved into ribbons of something else whenever the curse breakers tried to examine it closely.

There was no way they could even _attempt_ to remove the enchantments before Harry's magic had settled in adolescence, unless they wanted to risk his life.

For now, the instructions were to keep an eye out for other manifestations of strange powers, and to call the curse breakers back if he was ever in any pain from it, or had visions or headaches. If he did have problems, it would be best to involve the professional human healers.

Harry had already spent a lot of time scampering about the underground parks and grottos of Underfoot with the goblin children, but now his parents decided he would need to meet humans. When he was older, he would spend time with the youngest human Gringotts employees under goblin-oath. It would make the boy a little more worldly.

* * *

"How goes it?" Badluk asked.

"Annoyingly." Sibilig waved towards Harry, who was reading avidly. "He is in another of his 'why' phases."

Badluk groaned. The child was precocious, but this latest oddity was unnerving. Young goblins went through _how_ phases: how do I work around the knot in this wood, how do I keep a right angle on this corner stone, how do I hunt and kill a hodag, how do I balance these books, how do I know when my iron is properly tempered, and so on. 'Why' questions seldom cropped up at all.

And this latest phase had apparently come in conjunction with the blossoming of the boy's accidental magic. Having seen that he could call things to his hand, he wanted to know the _whys_ of magic.

Badluk explained what he could to the child, which wasn't a lot. Then he had asked Old Mother Blagwed down the street for help, and she had passed him on to her cousin Blaglung, and so on until Harry stood before the Head Warder with an expression of undisguised interest.

The Head Warder leaned on her staff and explained to the boy that at her great age of a hundred and seven, the most important thing she had learned about magic, the concept with the greatest power of explanation, was that there was an exception to every rule. She explained that lots of things that seemed to make sense in magic actually didn't, and a few things which didn't seem to make sense actually did. She told him that you could never know whether the apparent rules you discerned were truly fundamental, or whether they were just emergent phenomena of rules that underlay them in turn.

The young boy considered this solemnly, brow furrowed.

"...Why?"

* * *

"Harry Potter, the weave of this is barely adequate, the metal is poorly-tempered, and the shape deviates from a circle by nine degrees."

Harry didn't let the goblin's sour face and biting words trouble him. That was just the manner of Bidpruk the jewellery instructor.

"Yes, Bidpruk. Shall I start over?"

The goblin squinted down at the copper ring, then sighed.

"No. You _will_, however, have produced two rings of superior quality, in your own time, by the end of the week. If you cannot learn to work copper," he sneered, "you will never be allowed use of silver. Why waste precious metal on you when others can handle it with care and competence? Back to your dwelling, now."

Along with his peers, Harry had been mentored and tutored from the age of five in the various arts and skills which all goblin children learned.

He was currently apprenticed in ring-founding, ironmongery, accountancy, and the subtle magic of goblin-charms, each of which took up one of his days every week.

The last two weekdays – goblins took only one off per week – he would spend with many of the other children in the great hushed libraries of Underfoot, exercising his reading muscles through study of the history of runes, the breeding of dragons, or whatever else caught his fancy.

In his spare time he learned to whittle, played goblin games with his friends, spent time in his foster parents' garden, and explored the outer tunnels with Prettyroot and some of the larger rock worms.

It was a rather demanding childhood, for a human, but perfectly normal for a goblin. His parents allowed themselves a measure of pride. They were pleased that the boy's wits were developing. They had feared that his human blood might have caused him to lag badly behind the other children, but it seemed that cleverness could indeed be taught.

* * *

Harry grew up in two traditions. All goblins learned English as well as Gobbledegook. Some of his tutors spoke of wizarding things, and challenged him with many alternative points of view. He was given goblin texts and wizard books to read.

After he turned seven, he was sometimes given trips to the outside world as treats. The humans employed at Gringotts escorted him around Diagon Alley in magical disguise, letting him wander through the amazing bookshops, fascinating apothecaries and cluttered antique stores, identifying with satisfaction the goblin-made goods and piping up with questions about anything he did not recognise.

Harry was tutored in history, in the eight goblin rebellions and the dealings of the Brotherhood, first with the Wizards' Council and then with the Ministry of Magic. He learned of goblins in other countries, and of the blood distinctions and strange customs of the wizarding world.

He also learned to fight. The rough-and-tumble of children playing was channelled, at a certain age, into practise striking and wrestling. Then came morning fighting drills, a wooden blade in one hand and a cloak wrapped loosely around the other. By the time he had spent nearly seven years amongst the goblins, Harry could defend himself with one of their long knives, and was beginning to learn how to handle a blade in each hand without hurting himself.

Then, as Midsummer approached, and the seasonal warmth began to creep even as far down as the stalagmite city of Underfoot, miles and miles below the ground, Harry and those of a similar age were taken aside by an elder.

* * *

Buzkut sat on the stone steps, rested his chin on his gnarled walking stick. Preparing to speak, he cast an eye over the children assembled in a circle in front of him. His eye lingered briefly on the human boy in their midst, who was a good head taller than any of his yearmates.

Buzkut sat as straight as his back would allow, and spoke.

"As you know, you cannot become a true goblin without abiding by the laws and customs of the Brotherhood. To come into your own you must have observed all three rites of _gadammeruk_, you must have _gzzaspiched_ your _fnaurei_, and you must have demonstrated your wit by holding _sespuchteriggin_ over an adult goblin. Many of you have achieved at least the latter, in your years below the ground.

"But these formalities rest on a certain understanding of the world, a concept of what everything around you _means_, and what everything which arose from the land beneath your feet is _worth_. These things are familiar to you, but may never have been discussed outright.

"You have learned, and learned well, that what you craft as children is all but worthless. You have given gifts to your fellows and families. Such things must be seen as they are; well-meant trifles.

"Anything which takes a skilled craftsman less than three minutes to make, or which can be grown in a handful of dirt, or which could be crafted by a child, is a trifle. These are the terms we use. Trifles may be truly given, truly owned, but the theft of such is barely a crime. They are without _true_ worth. Their crafters may be respected, but the objects themselves may not.

"We define you, as children, by what you make. At the moment, you are all but worthless. This is what the test is for, what the threefold _gadammeruk_ does. Passing this test tells the Brotherhood that you are familiar with the disposition of resources and the art of creation, that you truly understand the concept of worth – and as such, you have worth yourselves."

Buzkut punctuated each word in this last phrase with a thump of his walking stick against the cut stone.

"Each of you are here because you are old enough now to attempt the _gadammeruk_, if your parents allow it. There is danger to the ritual, but there is no penalty for failure, only a gain of experience."

He paused, scowling as a few of the children whispered their excitement to one another.

"Should you pass the threefold test, you shall reach your Brotherhood majority. We use the wizarding majority of seventeen years for some things – of which you will no doubt be told by your parents when you are a little older – but this is the one that matters. It allows you to own things, for as long as you live. It allows your work to be respected. It allows you to take your Goblin Vows. It allows you to earn worth, and speak for the Brotherhood."

* * *

At the end of July, on the morning of Harry's eighth birthday, he hugged his foster parents firmly, and gave Prettyroot one last stomach rub.

He strapped on the high quality knife he had been loaned and the poor excuse for a knife he had forged himself, shrugged on a cloak over his clothes of rock worm leather, checked his wooden staff in the sling on his back, and set off for the lowest caverns.

He was ready to learn.

The _gadammeruk_ awaited, and with it the possibility of goblinhood, the probability of pain, the certainty of loss.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ I suppose 'Brotherhood of Goblins' is a sexist phrase, but it's canon, so what can you do? At least I have female goblins, which as far as I can tell is a departure from the books.

→ Thanks for the kind words. Keep it up, and leave a review if there's anything you want to see happen!


	3. Chapter 3

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 3**

* * *

Harry felt honoured that his parents had let him try for the _gadammeruk_ as early as the day of his eighth birthday. They had been reluctant at first, but he had persevered until they eventually admitted that his skills and canniness were the same as those of the other goblins his age. The actual goblin blood in their veins seemed to give them little natural advantage. Or if it did, he had made up for it with his dedication to his schooling over the last five years.

The feeling of pride was eclipsed, however, by nervousness. Nobody – _nobody_ – spoke of the threefold test. He had no idea what was in store for him, only that it would be dangerous. Badluk his foster father had cut back his metalworking time and halted the stonecarving training he had just begun, and given him extra knife practise instead.

A scattering of goblins were hanging around the lower passages as he made his way to the tunnels of trial. His older friends and cousins who had already passed the trial were making a show of solidarity. These goblins were fully of the Brotherhood, they understood what this meant. The pretty Gitztick clasped his arm for a moment, and Ratspan and Buvolok slapped him on the back as he passed amongst them. Others hung back, and simply nodded to him. None spoke a word; nobody could until he emerged from the tunnels of trial in a day's time.

The tunnels wound around and around and down to where the air began to grow warm and heavy in the bowels of the earth. Harry's footsteps slapped quietly on the smooth stone, and he counted them, trying to relax.

Six hundred and eight, six hundred and nine. At last the tunnel levelled off, and he stepped out into a small cavern. By the look of it, two huge quartz geodes had formed in close proximity, and somebody had carved out the rock wall between them, leaving a path of bare rock with a field of glittering crystals to either side. Standing in the middle, in the bare area, were three motionless figures.

Harry picked his way through the quartz towards them, heart thumping in his chest.

"Harry Potter!" the first figure cried as he reached the edge of the quartz floor. All three goblins were swathed in robes and wearing masks of dark obsidian. Harry could not see an inch of skin anywhere on them.

"You stand before us on the eve of goblinhood," spoke the second in a deep voice.

"Here you shall learn the use of gold," said the third.

"Here you shall learn the cost of death."

"Here you shall learn the worth of effort."

"Here you shall learn the value of wit."

"Here you shall learn the price of experience."

"Here you shall learn the truth of Brotherhood."

"Do you stand before us, willing to learn, Harry Potter?"

Harry spoke as steadily as he could, his mouth dry and his hands sweaty with nerves. "Y-Yes. I do."

One of the masked goblins walked carefully to one side of the chamber and another to the opposite side. The remaining figure lowered his voice. "You stand at the entrance to the maze of _gadammeruk_. Turn around."

Harry turned on the spot. The entrance to the tunnel he had arrived by had gone. In its place was a silver metal door. There was no handle, only an hourglass. The sand was all in the top of the hourglass, but was not flowing.

"The door before you is one of many in the maze. These doors are only for the use of the maze watchers, who will guide your steps. You are _never_ to use them, or rust shall devour your craft. The hourglasses on these doors will tell you how much time you have spent in the trial. You have exactly twenty-four hours to win your goblinhood. Your time starts now."

Harry had turned back as the goblin spoke, and now he received a firm nod.

"We shall see you on the other side."

A crack opened up on the other side of the cave, and became a tunnel entrance. The goblin stepped to the side, and Harry half-walked, half-ran forward between the two fields of crystal.

Darkness swallowed him up.

* * *

Harry moved through the empty tunnels, running where the floor was smooth, picking his way more carefully when it was rough. His eyes were getting better in the darkness, but he could still just barely see his feet in front of him. Occasionally he passed a dimly glowing silver door, with a fine trickle of sand flowing through the hourglass set in each one.

He met two forks in the tunnel, and each time chose the left-hand path. He tried to maintain a map in his head, as he had been taught, but the tunnels twisted sharply and often went up or down.

At one point, Harry entered a large, pitch-black cave. He moved carefully forward with his wooden staff out, probing the floor for pitfalls. He found some obstacle in the centre, and the shape of it beneath his hands proved to be an anvil on a small dais. He searched the cave carefully, but there was no clue as to whether he should do anything here. Reluctantly, he continued on.

Perhaps an hour had passed before he found another cave. It was of a similar layout, but was lit up dimly by glowing coals beneath the smoked glass of a furnace. A magic bellows inflated and deflated slowly with a wheeze, regulating the forge temperature.

There was a masked goblin standing in the centre of the room, who spoke in a lilting female voice as soon as Harry entered. "Harry Potter. In your first task of three, you shall learn the use of gold and the cost of death. Here is a forge; here are tools; here are bars of pure silver and fine gold. Forge yourself a weapon and continue through that archway."

The goblin pointed her finger, and a stone arch with a gargoyle lit up on the other side of the room. The light appeared to be coming from the gargoyle's eyes.

"A ferocious creature lies somewhere on the other side of that arch. You will hunt it down and slay it, and take the measure of death. No weapons but those of gold and silver may be allowed through the arch. You will leave your staff and daggers in this cave when you leave. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Harry's mind was reeling. Make a weapon from _gold_ and _silver_? Would such a thing be of any more use than his bare hands?

The goblin nodded formally to him, and ran her fingers over a silver door in the side of the cave. It opened, and she slipped away through it.

There was no use jumping right into things. Harry sat on the anvil to consider his strategy. The hourglass on the door said he couldn't have spent more than an hour here. There were three tasks, but nobody said they would all be equally easy. If he allowed a quarter of his time for sleeping, that gave him five hours per task and an hour to find each one. If later trials proved harder than earlier ones, he could forfeit rest.

He got up and went over to the tool rack. So; three hours to forge a weapon from unsuitable metals, with almost no knowledge of weaponsmithing. Then two hours to hunt some terrible monster. Or vice versa, perhaps. Harry had no idea how long it would take to stalk and kill a large animal.

He was fairly certain it would be a rock worm. Many creatures lived underground, but most of them were small and inoffensive, posing no difficulty at all. One or two _others_, which he had seen pictures of in ancient books, were truly monstrous. There were things in the depths and forgotten places of the world that armies of elite goblin warriors could fight and lose against.

On the other hand, he was eight. A medium-sized rock worm, or maybe a small ophiotaurus, would be all they could _possibly_ expect him to hunt. He hoped.

Harry's hands shook as he ran them over the tools available.

There was the sound of running footsteps. He glanced at the arch with the gargoyle, but realised they were coming from the opposite direction. Harry whirled and drew his better dagger, wondering if this was a new challenge. Would they give him more than one task at complete the same time?

A goblin ran into the room, glancing behind him before turning to Harry with a slightly fearful look on his face. He was quite tall, and wore a robe the same as those of the watchers in the maze.

No, Harry realised. It was similar, but not identical. And he had no mask. Harry pushed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, and at last recognised him as Grimrut, age eleven, from one of his foster-cousin's dwellings on Moss Aisle.

"Harry," the newcomer gasped, and fumbled in his robes. "I don't have long, they patrol regularly and I'll have to close up the secret way out again before they discover it. Listen, take this."

The goblin boy thrust something towards Harry, who stepped forward to look at it, puzzled. An iron bar?

"You'll need it. I almost died in the first part of the _gadammeruk_. Take the bar and make a _proper_ blade. The thing you're up against is far too tough for gold and silver!"

Grimrut hissed as Harry made no move towards him, glanced over his shoulder again and dropped the metal rod onto the anvil dais.

"I've got to go. Use the iron, it's the only way. Good luck from all of us, Harry!"

Grimrut turned and ran out of the cave the way he had came. Harry was still stunned, uncertain about what had just happened. He shook himself and stepped closer to the iron bar, examining it without touching it.

_I don't know if I can do this_, he thought. _Any of it_.

Perhaps if he used the iron to make a proper core under a folded layer of silver, nobody would be the wiser?He looked up at the carved gargoyle, then down at the iron bar.

Perhaps he wouldn't need it. He knew a little metal magic; maybe he could make some silver-gold alloy just strong enough to work a capable blade from. Harry looked across at the hourglass. No. Nowhere near enough time for smelting. He would be wasting enough time as it was, trying to put a proper edge on silver.

He walked over to the baskets of metal. He had never worked gold at all before, and had only used silver for jewellery. He knew their basic properties, though.

He thought further. Forget edged weapons; gold was nicely heavy and he knew how to use a staff.

* * *

Just over two hours later, Harry wiped the sweat from his face and pulled his shirt back on. He grasped for the sceptre in the water trough, and brought it out, drying it carefully on the forge cloth.

Well, 'sceptre' was a bit much. He could look at the weapon without flinching, but only barely. It was almost all silver, with a few bits of gold, mainly in case that was required by the challenge – it hadn't been clear. He hadn't wanted to waste the precious metal, though.

Harry's fingerprints had already slightly squashed the soft metal of the gold filigree handgrip. There was a knobbed ovoid at one end of the sceptre, heavy gold underneath the silver giving it greater weight.

The other end – well, he had done the best he could. The silver was pointy. He could jab it in an eye and do some damage, or maybe tear skin once or twice before it went blunt.

Harry placed his two knives and his wooden staff carefully on a bench at the side of the room.

The sceptre was short and stout; he didn't want it to bend as he was flailing artlessly about with it. He picked it up, weighing it carefully. A weapon he couldn't use was no weapon at all. He would have to allow for a little time getting used to it.

Fifteen minutes and a short set of staff exercises later, Harry approached the archway. The gold-and-silver sceptre was the worst weapon he had ever swung; he could probably do better with a sharpened chairleg.

Still. It was too late now to re-forge it. Maybe he could wrestle the rock worm down. Harry settled his shoulders, straightened his back, and walked carefully through the arch.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but the light seemed to flicker as he did, as if the gargoyle had winked at him.

The iron bar lay untouched on the floor of the cave.

* * *

_Here, rock worm, rock worm_, Harry thought.

Badluk had explained to him about his ability to speak to serpents. It was meant to be quite rare. The consensus was that the act of speaking Parseltongue actually magically embedded a measure of intelligence in the animal. Nobody knew if the snake would remain permanently intelligent, or if it eventually reverted back to normal.

Something made a clicking sound, in the darkness.

_Here, rock worm, rock worm_.

Harry didn't call for the monster aloud. His goblin-honed instincts said that turning a rock worm from a dumb creature to an intelligent one, befriending it, and then killing it was a _viable_ strategy, but probably not the _right_ one in these circumstances.

Of course, instilling a measure of intelligence in a monstrous creature was probably a bad idea anyway.

He crept from one stalagmite to another, sceptre at the ready. The set of caverns he had emerged into was large and shadowy. The arch had closed up behind him.

There were three discrete caves, large and gloomy but certainly not large enough to be hiding some of the creatures he had secretly feared. No earth krakens or mole titans could be lurking here.

Where would a rock worm be? A normal one would have made itself known by now. Of course, if it was _really_ young, like Prettyroot, it would still be able to fly.

Harry looked up just in time.

* * *

The human boy repeated every Gobbledegook swearword he knew inside his head, over and over. He didn't say them aloud. He couldn't waste that much breath.

The firebat swooped in for another run, clicking wildly, and he scrambled back behind another rocky outcrop. Flames licked around its edges. He stood ready to strike as it shot past, but it was too quick and too far away.

Blinking back tears of fright and shaking cinders from his hair, he watched the large, four-winged, fire-breathing creature as it rocketed to the other side of the cavern and turned back towards him. _Right. Use your wits_, he thought.

The firebat was headed straight for him, wisps of flame trickling excitedly from its black lips.

_Um. Wits, please._

_Run_, said another, more primal voice in his head.

Harry ran. But he ran craftily. He dodged randomly around stalagmites, and listened to the noisy wingbeats and the echoing clicks the creature made. At the point where the monster must surely be upon him, he stopped running and flattened himself against a piece of rock.

The huge bat shot past once more, flames dribbling to the ground in its wake. Harry ran to the side of the cavern, to the tunnel leading to the next cave.

_What was your mistake?_ said a voice in his head that sounded like his foster father.

_Only thought about tunnel creatures_, Harry thought grimly. Firebats lived in caves, and sometimes forests, at ground level. Those that lived deep underground made lairs in the huge caverns and stayed out of the tunnels.

_What will be your **next** mistake?_

Harry reached the end of the short rock passage and flattened him against the rock to the side of the entrance in the next cavern, sceptre raised ready.

He thought rapidly. _Trying to fight it on its own terms. It's twice my size, it can fly and breathe fire._

That seemed like a good answer, and he thought about it some more, as clicks and scratching sounds came from the stone passageway beside him.

_Right_, he decided after a few seconds, and began to climb the rough stone wall.

* * *

The firebat was angry. It had dropped silently on the prey creature, and the prey had _seen_ it.

Three times it had breathed flame at the running mammal, and three times the food creature had avoided it. This was unacceptable. A prey of such size would feed it for weeks.

After some early screeching, the wingless creature had concentrated on running quietly, and had disappeared into a burrow. Now, unable to use echolocation and hearing nothing but the roar of the furnace in its stomach, the firebat was tracking the prey by scent.

The firebat emerged, walking on its wings, into what its echoing clicks told it was a large open space. The scent was all around it now. The prey creature must be nearby. But the bat could hear only a slight movement in the air.

And then it could only feel pain.

* * *

Harry turned every unvoiced swearword into another blow of the club.

His muscles gave out after the animal stopped squealing, but before it stopped twitching. He collapsed forward onto its velvety back, shaking in terror.

After a minute, the creature's superheated organs, roiling beneath its skin, began to burn him. He managed to roll off it, and even stand up.

Then he was sick, and fell over.

After a few wretched seconds, he rolled to face the winged beast. Were those slight movements just death throes? Its head was mangled, oozing blood and fluids. Surely it couldn't be alive.

Harry got up on hands and knees and retched again, and once more for the blood, and twice for the killing and the fear, and then there was nothing left to come up.

Finally he sat, put his head between his knees for two minutes as he had been taught, and thought calm thoughts. Eventually he stood up with a long, shuddering breath, and picked up his glasses from where they had fallen in the struggle.

Now that he could see properly again, he examined the end of his sceptre. The soft metal of the club part had been beaten into a much flatter oval by repeated contact with the firebat's head. He hadn't used the sharp spear part.

But now he had to be sure.

With a grunt of effort, he lifted one wing, dragging it back off the creature's chest.

There would be... ribs and things, right? Getting in the way? He felt along the side of the creature, found a gap in the ribcage, put the point of the sceptre to it, and stopped.

Harry put the sceptre down and walked about until he found a fist-sized, flattish rock, then came back and lined the sceptre up like a chisel. Five huge blows and the firebat was impaled; the sceptre could be driven in no further.

Harry staggered back, sat on a rock, and trembled, staring at the body. Why had he _wanted_ to do this? Why had he wanted to do this on his _eighth birthday_?

There was an unexpected cough from the darkness, and now he screamed for the first time.

* * *

A masked goblin stepped forward from the gloom, and Harry rose respectfully. His heart was beating just as wildly as it had when he leaped onto the firebat's back from above the mouth of the tunnel.

"Harry Potter. You have completed the first task of three. Now it is time to reflect. Speak: _what is the use of gold_? Think before answering."

Harry thought carefully, first trying to understand the question. He had a few tutors who asked questions like that. The answers were always formulaic. You had to twist at meaning like a piece of wire and bend it to your will. The trick was usually to match the _shape_ of your answer to the _shape_ of the question.

Seconds ticked by, and then minutes, and then he spoke.

"The use of gold lies in its value, or – or more specifically in what is accomplished with it. Gold has no use as a weapon. It is the usefulness of things for some purpose that makes them valuable. Gold has worth because it's used to make things of beauty. Gold has _potential_. It's not valuable because it is scarce, but because of its use. That means that, just as for all things, the use of gold is its worth, and the worth of gold is its use."

The goblin nodded. "Then speak: _what is the cost of death_?"

Harry thought again. Wasn't there some proverb, _the cost of killing is innocence_? He had never killed before, but it honestly wasn't the case that once upon a time he'd had a feeling of not-ever-having-killed, and that he'd now lost that feeling.

If anything, he had _gained_ the knowledge of what it felt like to kill a living thing. It wasn't nice knowledge, but it didn't have to be. It was still a gain, not a cost.

He looked at it a different way. The sceptre he had crafted had been damaged beyond repair, in the process of killing the fire bat. But the metals were recoverable. All that it had cost him were two hours of his time, from the forging. That didn't seem like the right answer either: _the cost of death is two hours' work at an anvil_.

Alright, who had incurred a cost, if he discounted himself and the weapon? The firebat, obviously, but it _had_ been trying to kill him. What if it had succeeded? He assumed there had been goblins watching, that the firebat wasn't really free to incinerate him, but...

Well... yes. That sounded right.

"The cost of death," he said, sounding more confident than he was, "is risk. To kill is almost always to risk your own life in some manner. This cost is imposed on the, um, killer. The cost of death for the victim, is freedom. A living creature has choices to make every second of its life. A dead creature has no choices. Costs cannot be imposed on the dead, because they have no capacity to choose to repay such costs."

Harry felt that was a fairly good answer, although he wasn't _entirely_ sure he knew what he had meant by it. For his tutors in speaking and decorum, the words would have been enough. For his history tutors, he would be in deep trouble, because the next question would be to compare and contrast the two costs, to the killer and the victim. Harry thought he'd better wait and see whether he was asked to.

There was a long, long pause before the masked goblin spoke.

"Your answers are acceptable. Do you wish to continue?"

Harry remembered he still had two more tasks in his _gadammeruk_, and could find no voice for a few seconds. Then he managed, "Yes."

The goblin nodded and bowed slightly, then backed into the darkness. At the same time, another watcher of the maze stepped forward from the impenetrable shadow of a large stalagmite.

"Harry Potter. In your second task of three, you shall learn the worth of effort and the value of wit. Here is your staff; here is the knife given you; here is the knife forged at your own hand."

The goblin passed him each of the weapons in turn as he spoke, then bent to the floor and ran a long finger in a circle on the rock, leaving behind a faint silver marking.

"Continue to the passageways below. Within them lurks a wild but harmless creature. Retrieve what it carries without recourse to injury, and bring the item before the ruby doorway to gain entry to the final rite of passage. Do you understand?"

Harry finished strapping the wooden staff to his back, and nodded. "Yes."

He wondered what creature he would be up against now. He had to admit that he liked the sound of the word 'harmless'.

"Very well," the masked goblin said. The silver ring on the patch of stone where the watcher had traced a circle flowed away, leaving a wide hole. There was a drop below it to another cavern.

Harry peered down into it, and when he looked back up, the goblin was gone, along with the sceptre of silver and gold.

* * *

Harry landed neatly on the floor and looked around the cave. The walls had been partially smoothed. Three tunnel mouths were apparent, as well as a silver door.

The floor was flat, and in the centre of the room gravel gave way to an expanse of cave soil. Several luminous mushrooms were growing in it, kept damp by a trickle of water flowing down one wall. The rivulets pooled in the centre of the grotto, and kept the tiny underground garden.

Harry recognised monkey's hand fungus, luminescent yellowcaps, cave potatoes, amanita comida, and albino fern. He plucked a faintly glowing yellowcap and wedged it in the neck of his leather shirt, in case he would need light. He also gnawed at one of the pallid, juicy fern fronds to settle his recently-emptied stomach, washing it down with a scoop of water from the puddle on the ground.

If he had learned anything from the last task of his trial, it was to _plan_ and _pay attention_. Harry forced himself to stop thinking about the monstrous firebat, and consider what had been said to him.

He couldn't hurt whatever creature he was seeking. Right. He had been given his weapons back, presumably because they wouldn't be of any use – but you never knew. Okay. He had to retrieve an object from the creature. Fine. He had to be on the lookout for a ruby doorway. Yes.

He was going to learn 'the worth of effort and the value of wit'. It was probably safe to translate that to mean the task was going to require not just hard work, but cunning. Well, there wasn't much he could do until he knew what he was up against.

Harry chose a tunnel at random, and set off.

* * *

Four hours later, Harry was beginning to panic.

He was now extremely weary. His first task had tired him out, and even before that he had spent the morning walking through a maze of tunnels and beating out silver and gold. Then there had been the trek through this latest labyrinth. It had all been walking, until just now.

The last ten minutes he had spent running, but to no avail. Harry had got exactly _one_ proper glimpse of his animal adversary, and it had outrun him.

From the low shape in the darkness – that thin body, that long snout – he was sure it was a niffler. It had been wearing a golden necklace wrapped around its neck. He had tracked its hurrying footfalls through the stone maze for hours. And the moment he had managed to get close enough to actually see it, it had _sped up_. The creature ran faster than the nose of Grok the Diseased.

Time and time again in his exploration, he had found himself back in the little underground garden, which lay at roughly the centre of the maze. He had returned there deliberately twice, to rest and eat raw mushrooms and to gather drinking water from the moisture on the wall and floor.

Harry had found the ruby door half an hour in, and placed it carefully on his mental map. The door in question was masterfully hewn from a single slab of red cinnabar. It had no handle, only a small tray set halfway up it where a small object - such as a necklace - could be placed. The polished surface of the door had a floral pattern inset with rubies.

There were three or four of the forbidden silver doors in the labyrinth, too. Each had silently mocked him as he walked or ran past, the white sand in their hourglasses measuring the time slipping through his hands. He had also spotted a few goblin watchers, standing back in the shadows as he passed.

Having lost even the sound of the niffler, Harry collapsed against the wall and rubbed his nose, trying to calm his panic so he could think.

What resources were at his disposal? Two blades and a short pole. Basic food, light, water. His body, and his own artfulness. His teachers had told him never to discount things like that.

What skills could he apply? Basics of account management – well, there were no accounts here. Knowledge of the arts of metal – but, natch, no metal to work on. Knowledge of history, goblin customs, the wizarding world, the appraisal of gems, the identification of antiques. Hmmm. His knowledge of the enemy?

Harry tried to remember the bestiaries he had read. Nifflers liked precious things, and could hunt treasures, but weren't terribly effective. They couldn't so much as tell sparkly pyrite from true gold. Nor could they detect counterfeiting. They were zealously protective of their cubs, but often quite friendly and easily tamed. Harry also thought there was something about them liking to eat almonds, but he might be getting confused. Not that it was particularly helpful in either case.

In fact, none of that was really helpful. Of course, he had a knife and knew where to find a doorful of sparkling, niffler-tempting rubies waiting to be pried out. But he felt he'd rather fail than commit such sacrilege upon a masterwork like that.

Wait, that was something. Luring the creature instead of chasing it. _Use my wits_, he thought. He couldn't run down the niffler – certainly not without hurting it – so, the obvious thing to do was get it to come to him. Specifically, he needed a trap.

Well, he had no mechanical resources. He could rip up his cloak and try to snare it, but he'd never set a snare himself before, and he had no bait. He didn't know whether nifflers ate mushrooms. They might be drawn to the shininess of a knife edge, but he doubted it.

The maze had no blind corners to trap the creature in. There was no time to wait for it to sleep and sneak up on it then. Could he lay a trap on one of the doors with goblin magic? Wait – magic.

"Argh!" Harry slapped at his forehead, disgusted with himself. The eight-year-old immediately dropped to a sitting position and began to review every goblin-charm, every scrap of sign-witchery he had been taught, as well as a few he had seen but not quite grasped.

"Hand-keyed spells," he said aloud. They were what the Gringotts tellers used to open vault doors. He only knew the entrance ones, not the locking ones, and neither seemed relevant to the situation.

"The magic properties of certain herbs." Not helpful; all the plants in the grotto were common edible varieties.

"Basic runes for stone and steel." Most of the ones he knew were for strength or sharpness, to be etched on metal. Others stopped masonry eroding, or kept rock walls dry. He did know one rune that flared when it detected intrusion, but he didn't have any way to link that to something. So: not useful.

"Basic glamour-sight and the detection of magical forgery." Maybe there was some hidden tool in the labyrinth he was meant to find? But it would take far, far too long to search the entire maze for illusions. He could probably afford to check the ruby door, just in case.

He turned this idea around on its head. "The casting of basic deceptive glamours and minor illusions." very basic and very minor, in fact. These had been learned only so that he could detect frauds and forgeries in later life. The grim-faced tutors had spent hours on the topic of what would happen to him if he were caught using them for counterfeiting. Well, they weren't much use here. Even if Harry could glamour himself into a niffler, he wouldn't be able to mask his smell.

Another thought was hovering in the back of his mind, but it slipped away from him like a cave eel in a darkened pool. He waited, but it didn't return.

Harry moved on. "Disenchantment and magic-breaking." Again, only useful if he found something hidden, or magical. Was the necklace placed around the niffler's head by magic? Possibly, but he'd have to be almost touching it to remove it using the goblin-signs of disenchantment and unweaving which his foster mother had showed him.

There were other things he could _try_, if he had a magic staff, like the managers, or a wand, like some of the humans he'd seen. Things he'd read in books. But most of the goblin-charms centred around artefact magic, warding and hoodwinkery. He didn't even know how to make a creature sleep – wait.

A _calming_ charm! He'd known that one for years. He learned it as a small child, helping watch over the infants at the crèche in his neighbourhood in Underfoot. Harry ran through the sounds in his head, making sure he knew the charm in its entirety. Of course, it had to be murmured, like a lullaby, so it would be very difficult to perform while running after an animal.

He thought about it from every angle. The calming charm wasn't magically intensive; he could walk briskly through the labyrinth, repeating the charm, and hope the niffler would hear enough of it to let him get closer and closer.

It wasn't great, but it was the best idea he had.

* * *

Harry forced his legs to move just a little faster. The strain was getting to him, and he could feel his joints burning, but he couldn't afford to falter.

"_Fnar gzut glui glui mikrok gnechi auguin, fnar bidrit zinkot frickit-frickit lauguin..._"

The niffler scampered ahead of him, always keeping a corner between itself and the boy.

Harry scowled. He thought it seemed to be enjoying this.

He _had_ to keep going.

"_Fnar bezzle shribber-kupt ongi sono-auguin, fnar gibraltar hackuit glui glui auguin..._"

He turned the corner, and froze.

The niffler sat in the middle of the tunnel, watching him curiously from beneath slightly lowered eyelids.

He remembered, just, to keep the charm going.

Then he took one step towards it, and another, singing gently.

Another step – oh, no. His footfall roused the niffler, and it shot to its feet. Harry's charm faltered for a moment in despair. The creature scurried down the tunnel and darted -

- through a door?

Harry approached the silver doorway, still murmuring. The door was slightly ajar. The hourglass hissed away his seconds and minutes. More than a third of his time was gone.

The noise of the creature's footfalls stopped as Harry carefully brought his face to the gap and peered. The niffler sat on its haunches, a short way down the tunnel, and looked back at him.

He recognised the tunnel on the other side of the door. It was another part of the labyrinth. He could get to it from here, if he spent about a quarter of an hour walking in a loop to it.

He could _see_ the niffler, so close. The necklace gleamed against its dark brown fur. It's eyelids were slightly lowered again.

Harry spoke the calming charm six more times, standing inches away from the door. The niffler continued to watch him, quite calmly. He didn't dare stop singing, to try to encourage it. What if it ran off?

The doorway was right there in front of him. He had been wandering the maze, singing the charm, for the last _hour_.

He _had to_ go through it. He _couldn't_ go through it.

* * *

Harry began rendition number nine, standing in front of the doorway. His mouth was dry and he was getting hoarse. He knew he would slip and break the charm if he had to go on much longer.

And then the elusive eel of an idea which had previously evaded him returned.

It struck him like a bolt of brilliant goblin's silver. Nifflers – shiny things – glamours for counterfeiting.

Harry found new strength, and steadied his utterance of the charm. He slunk slowly backwards, watching the gap as he gathered a handful of pebbles and small rocks.

He had never tried using two different types of magic at once before. But one was all in the words, and the other only required concentration, so why not?

"_Fnar gzut appleachia frickit-frickit lauguin, fnar hackuit ongi mirakazzit auguin..._"

Harry closed his fist tight and thought of a brilliant emerald he had once seen, the sparkle and glimmer of it, the flash of bright moss in its perfect depths.

He opened his hand again and saw what was within it. He crouched down, guessing the distance to the niffler by eye.

He threw the emerald very carefully. It rolled to a halt about halfway to the animal, glittering slightly in the phosphorescent light.

There was a moment of tension. Harry finished the charm and began another verse, eyes glued to the creature in front of him, thinking _emerald_ as hard as he could.

Which suddenly trotted forward to bat playfully at the beautiful gem.

Harry kept up the calming charm, but relaxed in relief. The emerald immediately vanished, leaving a pebble in its place.

There was a plaintive mew from the niffler, and Harry took another small rock from his handful, already thinking of a sapphire.

* * *

The necklace clattered into the tray of the ruby door. _Thank the platinum spirits for those disenchanting spells_, Harry thought. When the niffler had finally approached close enough to nuzzle his ankles, he'd found that the gold chain was indeed attached to it with magic.

In the end he had spent ten long minutes alternating calming charms, glamours of precious gems, and hand-glyphs of unweaving. By the time he was done, the tension in his body had reached snapping point, and he collapsed in a heap, gripping the necklace in both hands. The niffler had run off to find something else sparkly.

The red stone door before him vanished away into a whirl of soft mist, and the eight-year-old Harry Potter stepped forward to face the third stage of his _gadammeruk_, his final challenge on the way to goblin adulthood.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ To all you reviewers, motivating me to write more: Thanks, keep it up!


	4. Chapter 4

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 4**

* * *

Dumbledore put down the real estate magazine, and summoned a sheet of parchment and a quill to him with a swift, decisive movement. He had to admit that he had, uncharacteristically, let matters drift.

In the aftermath of that tragic night many years ago, he had found that a great many people were extremely interested in Harry Potter's location. Who could he trust? Well, three of his staff and himself knew where the boy was, and Dumbledore considered even _that_ a risk. To ask around for volunteers to relocate to Privet Drive and keep an eye on Harry would be even more dangerous. Better to keep the secret close until the furore died down, and he could find a watcher without drawing attention to the neighbourhood.

That had quickly turned from a reason into an excuse, and the idea lay dormant behind the day-to-day challenges of holding down three full-time jobs.

Dumbledore wrote with quick, neat strokes. He had also had doubts he could _find_ a suitable person. Perhaps Alastor Moody, who had retired after the war, but the man would never be willing to live amongst muggles.

That wasn't the real reason, though.

The deaths of the Potters had shaken Albus Dumbledore badly. And for it all to play out in Godric's Hollow... he had sent Hagrid to bring the infant, rather than face the terrible memories that waited there for the older wizard.

And then there was the prophecy, that damnable prophecy. Harry had just lost his parents, and had saved wizarding Britain, and if Dumbledore's awful suspicions were correct... it might mean nothing but a martyrdom and an early grave. The alternative, which he had to believe, was better – but still not great.

So, things had drifted.

And how time had flown! It was Bagnold who brought the matter to Dumbledore's attention again, probing for the location of the Boy Who Lived. It was almost time to be thinking about elections again, of course, and Harry was nearly eight, surely old enough to smile for cameras and look adorable. The people's hero, rediscovered, would have been a source of immense political capital.

Dumbledore had made no promises, but offered her airy assurances and half-truths. She might have been known as the Iron Minister for her leadership during Voldemort's rise, but Dumbledore had been skilfully salving political egos in the international arena for decades. Bagnold was no real challenge.

Now he folded up the parchment and put it in an envelope, along with a clipping from the real estate magazine and a bank draft. "Take this to Arabella Figg, please, Fawkes."

* * *

Predictably enough, there was a masked goblin standing in the passageway beyond the red door.

"Harry Potter. You have completed the second task of three. Now it is again time to reflect. Think carefully, and speak: _what is the worth of effort_?"

After the first task, Harry had been expecting these archaic words, and had spent some of the early hours in the labyrinth second-guessing the answer. The experience with the niffler had given him pause for thought, but he still gave his prepared answer, changing it slightly on the fly.

"Without effort, there is no achievement. But the worth of effort does _not_ lie only in the worth of the product, but also in the learning that accompanies the work, the feeling of satisfaction with the result, a person's short time alive spent productively instead of squandered." _Except for the four hours a stupid person could waste trying to hunt down a niffler barehanded_, Harry thought to himself.

The goblin nodded. "Very well. Then speak: _what is the value of wit_?"

Harry considered this briefly. He'd heard a _lot_ about wit, in the halls and shadows of Underfoot. "Wit can achieve what brute force may not; wit can win where metal fails. Wit lets us appreciate how it feels to be the hunter _and_ the hunted."

He ran his fingers through his hair and added thoughtfully, "Works of great craft cannot be planned without wit; works of magic cannot not be accomplished without wit; a person's treasures cannot be safeguarded without wit."

And then, because the words seemed to fit a nice pattern, he said, "The value of wit is the sum of all these values."

"Your answers are acceptable, Harry Potter. Do you wish to continue? Yes?"

"Yes."

The goblin nodded to him, then turned and moved into the next room, gesturing to the boy to follow him. Harry stepped forward, and immediately recognised the same garden grotto he had returned to several times before. Only now, the silver door had been replaced with this tunnel. And on the cavern wall opposite was a small wooden shed, quite similar to the one in his foster mother's garden.

"Harry Potter. In your third task of three, you shall learn the price of experience and the truth of Brotherhood."

The maze watcher presented Harry with a large iron key. He took it carefully, examining it instinctively for obvious opening-charms and finding none.

"The third task is up to you to discover. But before you undertake the final step, there is something more you must do. Listen carefully, Harry Potter. As a child, you wandered without care upon the land and used its resources without thought. Now, to be a true goblin of the Brotherhood, you must give something back to the ground."

This sounded familiar. A lot of goblin custom involved respect for the land and the ores within it.

"People draw resources from the land, to shape with their craft," the goblin continued. "Metal, stone, gems, this is the obvious grist to the mill of endeavour; but empty space, nutrients, and groundwater also have value. We only have the right to use the land because we respect it, we _know its worth_. Acknowledgement of the land's worth means we return to it that which is un-needed and that which will nourish it. This is the cost to you, before you find your third task."

Harry opened his mouth to ask more, but was interrupted. "We can provide no more guidance at this point. Respect the ground, Harry Potter."

The heavily robed goblin retreated to the tunnel, and the silver door reappeared, hourglass flowing, blocking him from sight.

* * *

The key turned in the heavy iron lock, and Harry opened the door of the small shed. He had spent half an hour with his eyes closed, leaning against the stone wall in rest. He had eaten and drunk a little. Now it was past time to continue.

The wooden shed was filled with various typical tools. Harry brought them all out and laid them on the ground, taking inventory. There was an empty sack, a rope, an oilstone, a stepladder, a small barrow, a very long pry-bar, a carving knife, two shovels of different sizes, and a wood-axe.

Harry supposed he could return something metal to the soil, but that didn't seem like an act of respect. For one thing, it would be too easy. For another, it would be disrespectful to the new-looking metal tools in front of him. And finally, metal rusted; it didn't provide anything the land needed or anything which later generations could extract and use.

He felt similarly about burying his wooden staff. It was fire-hardened, and from what Beckflub the Ancient had taught him about earth, there wouldn't be enough wood to it to help the soil fertility. The core was of iron, too, which had the same problem. There was no sense in putting refined iron within the earth. It could not become a source of metal any more than a buried cogwheel would grow into a clock bush.

Harry wandered to the centre of the little grotto, and knelt to examine the topsoil more closely. He dug through it gently with his fingertips, as he did when weeding Sibilig's garden. Soon his hands were buried past the wrists.

This was only a little cave garden. The soil was _much_ deeper than it ought to be.

His fingers, worming through the loose dirt, snagged on something. Harry hauled at it. A large root? A goblin's respectfully-buried staff, from a _gadammeruk_ long past?

...No. He brought the thing to the surface, and jagged bone gleamed pale yellow in the mushroom-light.

Harry looked thoughtfully up at the large hole in the ceiling.

* * *

Harry walked in circles around the bloodied corpse. He didn't want to mutilate the firebat's body, but had realised he would have to do something about the wings. They were unwieldy, and made up too much of the creature's body mass.

He wrinkled his nose at the smell of blood and reeking animal. It was only going to get worse.

"One-two, one-two, and through, and through," he muttered to himself. The axe came down.

By the time he got to the fourth and last wing, he had found the exact place in the joint where the axe would separate two bones with relative ease. He dragged each folded leathery limb over to the hole and threw them down into the mushroom cavern, stepping down onto the ladder and galumphing back to the cavern below.

Harry took up the shovel, glad that he had decided not to bring the entire firebat down at once, since he hadn't remembered to dig a hole under the ceiling entranceway first.

He found a spot near the edge of the dirt, out of the way, and carefully put several fungi aside to be re-planted once he was done. He got a feel for the soil with the smaller shovel. It was only a shallow excavation, but the digging was made harder by the numerous bones he uncovered. He didn't recognise any of them, except for the skull of a rock worm.

Harry struck a more difficult layer, made from the rotten chitinous plates from some unknown beast, and stopped. He buried the bat's wings there, covering them over with rich topsoil, and tenderly replaced the mushrooms in the newly-enriched ground.

Then he turned his attention to a larger hole. Fortunately, the body of the monstrous creature was quite compact without its wings. It still took him more than an hour of digging before he was sure the pit was deep enough, though. He ran up and down the ladder to make sure, measuring the hole and the body against the length of the shovel.

Harry brought the rope up, and was about to try hauling the dismembered body towards the hole with sheer force before the voice in the back of his mind reminded him to use his wits.

He dragged a boulder over and brought the long steel pry-bar up from the shed, wedging it against the stone as a lever. He put all of his weight on the other end of the bar, and the dead firebat tilted and dropped into the cavern below with a terrible thud.

Harry had moved the ladder, and had to jump down after the body, landing awkwardly to the side to avoid dropping on top of it. He packed all of the bones he had uncovered around it, then scooped soil into the hole from the heap he'd excavated. He used the shovel to tamp down the large hillock as best he could, and then gathered up the plants he'd relocated, which were temporarily sitting in the puddle of water.

"Cave potato; planted deep, watered well," he said to himself as he worked. "Albino fern, planted shallow, only moistened. Monkey's hand fungus, propagated by scattering on the soil. Yellowcaps and edible amanita, planted in a little scoop, water slowly and thoroughly."

The firebat was buried. Harry sat back on his haunches and wondered what to do next. The silver door showed he had been chasing his _gadammeruk_ for about eleven hours. Could he afford to sleep before seeking out the next task?

There were no goblins in sight. Harry snacked absently on a stray yellowcap fungus.

Then he blushed slightly as he remembered the last step of _any_ job: put his tools away. He and the goblin children had received 'respect' talks before. They inevitably included not just respect for the land, but respect for himself as a craftsman, and respect for the tools without which he would _not_ be a craftsman.

"Rope, ladder, pry-bar, oilstone, axe, shovel." Harry counted off the things he had used and stepped out of the shed, locking it behind him.

There was immediately a rumbling sound, and a tremor beneath his feet. Harry stuck close to the wall, just in case, and watched as the three tunnels spaced around the cave closed up. Then the iron key disappeared from his hand in a puff of vapour. As it did so, the silver door across from him melted away into nothingness, revealing a deep vertical gash in the rock.

* * *

As tended to happen when the Headmaster had a hand in events, things had fallen into place quite easily. Arabella Figg was installed at Privet Drive within a month.

Dumbledore had wondered, from time to time, if he had made the right choice. Lily had never spoken well of her sister, and Severus, upon being taken into Dumbledore's confidence about Harry's location, had gone to surprising lengths to explain that the Headmaster was quite out of his tree. Severus had known Petunia, and told Albus he might never be forgiven for handing Lily Evans' son over to the woman.

Dumbledore had mused for a long upon that strange bit of passion, delivered as it was from a master of occlumency. Nevertheless, his actions had been for the greater good. If Arabella reported anything dire, of course, he would revisit his decision.

After all, there were other hiding places, almost as safe as blood wards. Perhaps even _as_ safe. The muggles would help prevent the boy getting a swollen head, of course – James was bad enough, and the elder Potter hadn't even had a destiny or a legacy of destroying Dark Lords. There were grim tasks still ahead of Harry Potter, and Dumbledore had felt that coddling him would not help the boy prepare for them, but he was a compassionate man. He would bring him into the wizarding world if things were as bad as Minerva and Severus had suggested.

Figg's first owl reached Dumbledore on Harry's eighth birthday, reporting that she hadn't even seen him leave the house.

Four days and four increasingly worried owls later, Dumbledore decided to stop in himself and check up on the boy.

He almost had a heart attack.

* * *

Harry followed the crevasse forward, stumbling occasionally on the jagged floor. He moved as quickly as his exhaustion would allow. The crack was closing up behind him, and he was _fairly_ sure it was only closing at the rate that he was moving.

Fairly sure, but not certain.

Eventually he emerged into an empty rock chamber, a small, round room with walls of natural marble. There was a strange door in front of him.

As he examined it, the sound of creaking stone stopped as the narrow, rugged passageway he had come through closed up entirely.

Harry belatedly realised he should probably have brought some food and water along with him.

He sat against the back wall, and stared tiredly at the door. Maybe this was the last challenge in its entirety? Maybe he could get through it, go home and go to sleep, then wake up with his goblin majority.

He smiled at the thought and his eyelids lowered. After a few minutes, he caught himself dozing.

"Up! Up, up, _blood and shale_, must keep moving." Harry rose and paced about the room, then stood in front of the door and examined it minutely.

It was larger than most goblin doors, more than six feet tall, and made of polished grey mica, bound with a lattice of steel struts. Instead of a handle there was a bronze wheel. It reminded him of a picture of a flood-door he had seen. Turning the wheel should release the lock and let it swing open.

Needless to say, the wheel did not turn.

There were strings of runes running from the central wheel to each corner of the door. At those corners there were trays built into the panels, identical to the one on the ruby door. Harry thought the runes might be old dwarf-sigil; he had no chance of translating them. There were also letters on the wheel itself. They were inlaid with black pearl, and were written in common bank-mark, which he could read.

"SACRIFICE," Harry read aloud.

He looked at each of the four small trays protruding from the door. He got down on his knees and ran his fingers over the two he could reach more easily.

_There_. There was a glyph carved deeply into the underside of each one, grey against the grey stone, where he might have missed it.

His fingers told him that the one on the left was a magic rune for blood. On the right, a more complex rune for molten metal.

He stood, and traced the undersides of the two upper trays. He could just reach them without having to stand on tip-toe.

On the left was... his fingers moved carefully... the rune for low-quality coal. On the right was another, more difficult, rune. Harry traced it three times, frowning, before he realised it represented a complex notion: the form of serpents.

He leaned against the cool metal of the door, looking muzzily at the wheel again. _Sacrifice_. Well, an obvious first start was with the blood tray.

"Don't mess with blood magic," he could hear Badluk say. He'd heard it many times. Sibilig would always temper it with, "Don't mess with blood magic unless you know exactly what you're doing."

Well, he might not know _exactly _what he was doing, but he didn't have a lot of choice here. Harry knelt, then took out his good knife, which his uncle had given to him. He pressed the tip to the side of his forearm. His hand shook a little. He'd been scratched up by the rough rocks, bruised his thumb in the forge, and got burned by the firebat, but those injuries had all been inadvertent.

He jerked the knife, but without the will to draw blood. He navigated the knife edge back to its starting position.

After a minute, he gritted his teeth and thought of his foster parents' proud faces, then firmly slashed the point of the knife a little way across his arm.

Blood trickled across the blade, and he tilted it over the tray. Drip, drip. A few spots, and then a few more, and suddenly the door blazed with colour.

Harry staggered back and sat down, hard, absently squeezing his forearm. He felt a little light-headed, not at losing a little blood but at the act of deliberately slicing himself.

The runes running from the lower left corner of the door lit up, one by one, blazing with orange light before settling down into a faint, steady glow. They reached the wheel, which turned slightly.

What was next? He wondered aloud. "Low-grade coal, molten metal, the shape of snakes." Well, he had the poor iron dagger he had made himself, and he knew a charm to heat metal, but nothing that would _melt_ it. But maybe it was the concept that counted.

Harry took off his cloak and wrapped it around his right hand several time for protection, then held the dagger by the pommel. His left hand flashed through signs in the air as he concentrated.

After two minutes, the knife blade began to glow with heat. He was focusing on the very tip of the blade, hoping the heat would spread slowly through metal and not burn him.

A minute after that, his hand was uncomfortably hot, and getting worse. The cloak began to smoulder, and Harry hissed through his teeth in pain. Then he couldn't bear it any more, and dropped the heated knife in the bottom-right tray.

"Ow ow ow ow ow." He unwrapped his hand and stuck his fingers in his mouth.

The dagger lay in the tray, looking like it was getting hotter instead of cooling down. It glowed orange, and then light yellow. Harry shaded his hands against the light, which suddenly got brighter as the runes began to flare. They spread up the door, and the wheel turned a little more, and the door actually swung forward a fraction of an inch.

Molten iron bubbled in the tray.

"Charcoal is poor coal," Harry mumbled aloud through his fingers, and looked regretfully at his staff. It was only a simple one, but it had a nice balance, and he'd had it for as long as he could remember.

He used his remaining knife to carve off a long sliver of wood and put it experimentally in the upper-left tray. He wondered if it, too, would get hotter and hotter, becoming charcoal of its own accord.

Apparently not. Well, at least he had a heat-source now.

Harry dipped the end of the staff into the liquid iron. The wood burst into flames immediately, and Harry rolled it in his palms, trying to rapidly heat the staff's tip all over. Actual charcoal had to be made by steady heating while smothered, under sand or clay, but perhaps "charred wood" would be close enough.

The heat was spreading up the iron core of the staff, and he dropped it to the floor. He used his remaining long knife to pry off a few smouldering lumps of wood. These he gathered carefully on the edge of the blade, then lifted them into the upper-left tray.

Harry, cleaning the dagger on the edge of his cloak, watched in satisfaction as the runes flared and settled. A faint black line appeared as the door swung further inward. A lack of high-pressure water jetting through the crack told him that at least this wasn't _really_ a flood-door.

Harry turned his attention to the most complex rune. The _form_ of _serpents_? What could he sacrifice for that? Was form the same as shape? He had a cloak clasp in an S-shape, but wasn't wearing it today. All he had left were his clothes and good dagger. The closest thing to a serpent on him was his scar.

"I'm _not_ going to try and slice that off," Harry told the door firmly. "I'm just not."

What about a sock? Was that similar enough to a snake? _Maybe a really fat, floppy snake_, he thought doubtfully.

Harry stood there for another five minutes, pondering deeply, before he realised. His shirt was made from rock worm hide. If he cut off a sleeve...

He struggled with it, jerking the knife through the tough leather. Then he laid the scrap of leather carefully on the floor and began to cut out a long, curving strip. Harry suppressed a yawn, stabbed two holes for eyes, and was done. It wasn't much, but it looked slightly more like a snake than it did anything else.

He placed the strip in the upper-right tray, and crossed his fingers.

Runes flared, white, orange, yellow. They raced down the door towards the wheel, and as they settled again, it turned. The bronze moved slowly and then faster and then the door swung smoothly into the room, forcing Harry to hurry backwards or be squashed.

* * *

"Oh, _no_."

Harry looked at the small room beyond, and the second door.

"You have _got_ to be joking."

He slowly stepped forward. The first door automatically swung closed behind him.

"Okay, fine." Harry stepped towards the second door, and stopped to yawn again, his eyes watering slightly. He blinked firmly and took stock of the new door.

It was carved from some greenish, glittering stone he vaguely recognised as serpentinite. The door was plain but for a plate-sized copper disc in the middle. The centre of the disc held a large, flat opal, surrounded by tiny symbols. Carved above it, in bank-mark, was the word DETERMINATION.

Harry sighed, and reluctantly examined the tiny runes, already knowing what he would find.

Yes, symbols of warding, symbols of blunting, symbols of pain, symbols of alarm. All of them intricately inter-threaded. Mr Scintillion, one of the humans he had talked to in Gringotts, had explained the basics of curse-breaking. This was an ancient trick, a blast door. The gem was the lock, and Harry would have to shatter it as quickly as possible. As soon as he came near the surface he would be in pain, pain that would not stop until the opal was broken. And that would not be an easy task, with all these protective runes around it.

Which meant he had to start with his very best shot.

DETERMINATION, the door said to him.

Harry cleaned the blade of his good knife on the edge of his cloak. Then he sat cross-legged, and took up a fragment of charcoal from the remains of his staff.

Through a haze of tiredness, he realised that either goblin runes or enchanters' runes might not be effective here, depending on the exact spell that had been used. He would have to try both.

"Haidzruno runu, falahak haidera, ginnarunaz," Harry mumbled. _I, master of the runes, conceal here symbols of power._

He started with a wizarding rune, sketching it carefully on the knife in charcoal. Nenaht, the nine-pronged hydra, for swift and steady striking.

Then a goblin rune: Tinne, for metal and sharpness.

He turned the blade over and continued with another wizard rune. Purisaz, the symbol of thunder giants, for strength and destruction.

A final goblin rune, the blaze-rune Luis, and that was all he dared. Accidentally smudging the other runes would spoil his effort and waste his magic.

"Haidzruno runu, falahak haidera, ginnarunaz," he repeated, and hefted the long knife.

* * *

_Crack_.

Harry hissed in pain, and raised his hand for another strike.

_Crack_.

"Aaaaaaaaugh. Come _on_."

_Crack_.

Fire blossomed in his bones, something tightened around his neck.

_Crack_.

A hairline fracture appeared in the opal. The tiny runes surrounding it sizzled malevolently.

_Crack_.

Needles of ice were slicing his eyeballs. Blood filled his mouth as he bit his tongue.

_Crack, tinkle tinkle_.

Every noise was magnified to Harry's senses, but the pain was gone. The opal turned a dull black, and shards of it broke away to fall to the floor. Harry had enough control to stumble backward, the word DETERMINATION sweeping towards him as the door opened.

He stumbled into the next room, drunk on fatigue and adrenaline.

The knife dropped from his hand, its edge completely ruined by the door's magical defences. The runes he had placed on it faded away as it clattered on the stone floor.

There were _two_ doors here. One silver, set to one side. The hourglass murmured gently in it. Another door directly ahead of him.

A masked goblin stood at the side of the room, watching silently.

Harry stumbled forward, beaming. _Surely_ this was the last door. If he could... just...

The room swayed about him.

Harry Potter collapsed, unconscious.

* * *

After a week's frantic inquiry in every subtle channel available to him, of which there were many, Dumbledore was forced to go to the Aurors.

Madam Bones, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, was angry, but frightened too. Angry at Dumbledore, and frightened for her job. With things the way they were in the Ministry at the moment, went things went wrong, heads rolled. The owners of the heads were usually the people who happened to be nearby when blame was being handed out.

Dumbledore looked at her gravely.

"The Dursleys have been masterfully obliviated. Whoever did it made a perfect cleanup job. They insist that they never took him in, and I'm afraid I could find literally no trace of Harry at Privet Drive. I will of course assist your investigation in any way I can. Please Floo call my office as soon as you have any news, Amelia."

"No." She made a small move towards the door as if to stop him leaving, then halted and frowned. "We need to deal with this now, Dumbledore. You started this, and you'll have to finish it. Step through to the Ministry."

"Very well."

* * *

A few slivers of consciousness squirmed about, again reminding Harry's waking brain of cave eels.

There was... something. He'd bit his tongue in his sleep? And his bed was a _lot_ harder than he was used to. Had he fallen out?

Harry yelped as memory flooded back, and tried to leap to his feet.

His body complained, and he hastily settled on the less lofty target of sitting up.

The masked goblin was still standing in the same position as before. Or perhaps it was another one.

_How much time do I have left?_

Harry stumbled to his feet and investigated the silver door. Its hissing hourglass said he had about half an hour left. Maybe slightly more, if he was lucky.

The goblin's mask faced forward impassively.

Harry went to the door. It was formidable, made of solid fire-darkened steel and then braced with strips of decorative bronze, going green with age.

The lock was complicated, full of dwarf-bolts and diamond screws and charmed bars. He thought there were touch-wards on it, but couldn't be sure. It didn't _look_ trapped, so he hesitantly touched the flat plate of goblin's silver that lurked where a keyhole would usually be.

Nothing happened. Harry peered at the mechanism, acutely aware of minutes ticking by, and frowned. He couldn't even work out exactly how the magical lock _functioned_, let alone try to bypass it.

The word TOIL was written in bank-sign above the locking mechanism, but there was a firm line slashed through it. Spidery letters above the word read, HONOUR.

Harry looked around carefully. The door behind him had shut and locked. The room was small. There was a cold anvil in one corner, with a hammer, file and jeweller's pliers on it.

He looked at the dark steel door again, and considered points of entry. Not the lock. The door itself? Harry tapped each panel, sketching a quick rune of undoing with his other hand. If there had been illusions in play, they would have melted away – or at least revealed themselves. Even a masterfully-worked solid glamour should have shimmered briefly.

_Solid steel_, he thought. _Alright, the hinges?_

Harry looked at them. There didn't seem to _be_ any.

So much for the points of entry.

Harry regarded the goblin at the side of the room, wondering what the trick was here. Surely there was one.

He bowed slightly, receiving a slight nod in return. "I don't suppose you can give me any advice?"

"No."

Harry thought carefully. The third task had been up to him to discover. "Do I have to go through this door, to complete the _gadammeruk_?"

"Yes."

"Am I required to use these tools to do so?"

"No."

Harry thought a little further.

"Is it _possible_ to use these tools to do so?"

"I cannot say."

Harry glanced at the hourglass, nervously biting his lip, and went to look at the tools again. They were simple and plain, and had no obvious spells on them. He touched each carefully against the door and the lock, just in case.

Nothing. The goblin's mask was still and impassive.

_Well, my wits haven't failed me yet_, Harry thought. _So: 'TOIL' scratched away and 'HONOUR' in its place?_

He looked again at the door, and quickly sketched the bank-sign for honour on its surface with a stub of charcoal.

There was no response.

Harry Potter began to panic.

* * *

Madam Bones had twenty years' experience in not panicking. She had honed the skill to an art form, and occasionally bedazzled even her most experienced Aurors with it. She might look small and old, but people who knew her saw her as a rock, able to weather any storm.

First she sent out Head Auror Scrimgeour to lead the investigation into Harry Potter's disappearance, starting at the Dursleys'. He took two trusted wizards. For now, their inquiries would be kept completely secret, while they learned what they were dealing with.

Along with Terrence Knightley, Senior Officer of the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol, she questioned Dumbledore. Madam Bones needed to discover _everything_ he had done with regard to Harry Potter.

"Show me these blood wards," the Head of the DMLE said, grimly.

Dumbledore, rather unused to being in the hotseat, raised his hand and collected together a handful of fine silver-and-gold threads out of the air. There was the faintest sound, like a harp's strings being plucked one by one on the horizon.

Dumbledore showed them the threads of the magical ward signature. "Placed upon him by his mother with and completely unbroken, you see. Nobody who means him harm has bypassed them."

"Maybe-"

The powerful witch and wizard both turned to look at Knightley, who gulped and continued.

"...Maybe he's been _rescued_, then?"

Dumbledore suddenly seemed to age. "Nobody who means him harm," he repeated quietly to himself.

* * *

Harry sat on the anvil and fidgeted as he thought, trying not to listen to the hourglass. No tools here would overcome the lock. No magic he possessed would bypass it. No physical force he could summon up would so much as scratch the door.

What had the maze watcher told him the third task was about? He would learn the price of experience and the truth of Brotherhood.

Harry had the feeling that the payment due to the land was the price of experience. He'd already dealt with that, his repayment made in the form of a nutritious body twice his own weight. On the other hand, 'the truth of Brotherhood' seemed kind of important, and what had the first two doors told him about that? He'd just used his wits and magic, as in the second task, for the door marked 'SACRIFICE', and his physical strength and courage, as in the first task, for the door marked 'DETERMINATION'.

Why scratch out 'TOIL' in favour of 'HONOUR'? What might the truth of Brotherhood be? All goblins of the Brotherhood could be relied upon, a Brother was held above any other being, that was probably the most self-evident truth.

That-

Harry blinked, and stood up. He walked across the room to the watching goblin, and bowed respectfully as a young goblin should.

As the last few minutes gathered in the hourglass across the room, he asked, "Will you open the door for me? Please?"

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ To the people who have asked: no, this is not a crossover fic. There have been, and will continue to be, many fun references to webcomics, literature, music, myths and so on, in varying degrees of obscurity.

→ I'd like to thank people for a fantastic response for just a few chapters! Please continue to read and review!


	5. Chapter 5

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 5**

* * *

The heavy door swung open.

Candle light spilled through the crack, blinding after a day of near-darkness.

* * *

Scrimgeour appeared in the room with a sharp pop, causing his boss and Dumbledore to break off their tense discussion. The capable Auror quickly reported that a team of St Mungo's Healers and DMLE Obliviators had not only failed to undo whatever memory charm or amnesia potion had been used on the Dursleys, but they couldn't even find traces of it. Then he Disapparated again.

"You say you put your own trackers and sensors in place when you returned to Hogwarts," said Madam Bones flatly. "Ignoring the various dubious legalities of that, you left behind the one-year-old child who was suddenly Most Wanted by the Dark Lord's extant followers. On a doorstep. To a muggle house. Exposed to the elements," she added.

Dumbledore schooled his wince into a look of mild reproach. "Naturally I put various containing, calming and defensive spells on him, for his safety. And I did leave a letter with him, for his relatives."

Madam Bones sighed. "How long was it, exactly, between you leaving the child unattended and you implementing your extra trackers on top of these blood wards?"

"It couldn't have been more than five or six hours."

"_Five_ or _six_ ...five or six ..._hours_? Were you out of-" Madam Bones stopped, and pursed her lips.

"Harry was protected by blood wards, Amelia," Dumbledore protested wearily. "Voldemort had just been vanquished, the Death Eaters were everywhere, and my attention had to be everywhere at once. When I did have the change-trackers up, there was no possibility of him being removed from the house."

"Really," said Madam Bones icily.

"I suppose he could have been abducted from his muggle primary school or from an excursion outside the property, but since Lily's charm was tethered to him, the main part of the blood wards should have extended to there... unless he was gone from the house for more than a year, which would leave them dormant..." Dumbledore's fingers curled in his beard as he thought aloud.

"Bring up the ward signature again," Amelia Bones said, raising her eyebrows at a piece of paper another of her Aurors had just slipped to her.

Dumbledore focused, and suddenly held a bunch of metallic-coloured strings, which faintly glowed in the air. Knightley leaned forward, and prodded at them with his wand. "They've _never_ been broken, or even tripped? Then why are there so few of them?"

"Well," Dumbledore said, peering at the man over his spectacles, "there is one key-thread, coloured silver if the wards are dormant or platinum if active, as well as four copper threads representing the wards' extent in each dimension, one gold thread for each year they have been in place, and one burnished bronze thread for each year he's been under their protection. Because Harry has only been there seven years, it follows that-"

"Albus." Madam Bones looked closer. "There are no bronze threads there."

There was a long, shocked silence.

_You __idiot_, she had enough presence of mind to prevent herself saying aloud.

Knightley looked at her expression, and the expression of shock that Dumbledore wore, and quickly found somewhere else to be.

* * *

Two dozen pairs of eyes watched as the eight-year-old Harry Potter stumbled into the room. A masked goblin followed him into the cavern, quietly closing the huge steel door behind him. When it clicked shut, the stone of the cave wall surged across across its surface, flowing until the door had been completely concealed within rock.

A cheer went up.

Harry looked up, blinking against the points of light all around the room. A hesitant smile turned into an unfaltering grin, showing exactly the right number of teeth, as he made out the shapes and voices of his guardians. They were standing beside the High Manager and Bank Director, Gurmsalt himself, on a low stone dais.

All around the room, maze watchers were removing their metal masks and heavy robes. This revealed many faces Harry knew, including the old curse breaker Nibilix, his metalworking teachers Bidpruk and Dukbadden the Flinty-Eyed, the librarian Shellkot, and more than half of the Gringotts managers. There were far more than the single Council of Counters representative required to oversee the _gadammeruk_.

Harry smiled. It was sinking in slowly that his trial was finished and over; he had earned himself a place in the Brotherhood. He hoped he wouldn't do something stupid now.

"Harry Potter." Movement around the room stilled, and King Gurmsalt the Wary waved him forward.

"You have accomplished much this last day. Know that, to have reached this final stage, you must have learned well the price of experience and the truth of Brotherhood. Be secure in this knowledge. Now, step forward, Harry Potter."

The goblin's voice echoed around the silent room as he spoke the formulaic words. "Harry Potter, we welcome you now as the raw ore from which a Brother amongst Brothers may be smelted. Your honesty is absolute. You were swayed not in your trials by the hope brought by a door ajar, or by the offer of iron from a friend."

Across the cave, the young Grimrut waved cheerfully at Harry, who smiled bewilderedly back.

"You have shown your trustworthiness, Harry Potter. You have learned the distinction between cheating and reliance on the support of the Brothers. You have come here to us by fire, blood and metal. You have come through sacrifice and determination, honour and toil. Harry Potter, you have worth. The time has come for you to _gzzaspich_ your _fnaurei_."

These last words, as ancient as anything, no longer had any elementary meaning beyond their sounds. What they meant was that a prospective Brother would swear the full goblin-oath, a more powerful version of the one which bound human employees of Gringotts to protect the bank's secrets.

The High Manager stepped down from the stone platform on which he had stood and grasped Harry's forearm tightly.

"Harry Potter. Do you swear on your wits and your craft never to act against the best interests of the Brothers?"

"I do swear."

When Harry spoke the words, the candles in the room flared like a forge in full heat for a moment, twisting the watchers' shadows into crazy shapes on the walls before settling down again.

"Harry Potter. Do you swear on the bones of the earth that you shall not speak of the rites of the _gadammeruk_, nor any other Secret of the Brotherhood, in the presence of anybody but a Brother?"

"I do swear."

A wind swirled through the room for a moment, carrying with it the sound of distant rivers, deep underground, and a smell of hot metal and compost.

"Harry Potter. Do you swear on caverns deep and mountains high to dedicate your self to _finding_, _keeping_ and _doing_ that which has worth?"

Harry looked up at the solemn white eyes of the Bank Director. "I do swear," he said firmly.

Each of the final three words spoken was accompanied by the appearance of a faint bluish-green ball of glow-worm light. The three orbs hung for a moment in the air, fighting the orange candle flames, before spiralling down and coalescing on Harry's skin. He braced himself for pain, but felt only a slight tingle. He could identify this as the oldest of old magic, which his books said was always accompanied by a 'symphony of sensation: sight, sound, heat, smell and touch'.

There was a moment where he felt like dark obsidian discs were descending over patches of his mind, shepherding everything he knew about the Brotherhood within their impermeable surfaces.

The king stepped back.

"The Council has heard that Harry Potter has held _sespuchteriggin_ over a Brother. Is this true? Speak."

Harry knew that this meant something like, 'to have outwitted an adult'. It was the last of the three things that needed to be done to join the Brotherhood as a goblin in his legal majority.

"It is true," Badluk called, as Sibilig beamed by his side.

Harry couldn't even remember the first time he had beaten his foster parents in a battle of wits. His vaguest, and thus perhaps oldest, memory was from years ago. A memory of tricking his foster father with subtle truthful words so that he thought he was wanted at a neighbour's house, giving Harry free reign of the jar of candied walnuts in the dwelling kitchen.

Harry smiled brightly.

"Then, Harry Potter, I officially declare you a Brother amongst Brothers."

There should have been a thunderclap or something, Harry thought, to make it official. There was a rising sensation of pride and power in him, but it wasn't the same.

Two goblins stepped forward from either side. On the right, one bore a quill on a purple velvet cushion, one an old scroll pinned to a silver tray. The other two stood at attention at the king's left. Gurmsalt took the quill and carefully signed his name to the scroll. The first of the two notary goblins countersigned the document, and then the final goblin attending to the High Manager stamped the parchment with the Great Seal of Gringotts.

And then it _was_ official.

"Harry Potter, you are hereby bound to keep all the Brotherhood's secrets and maintain its treasures. This debt of information is paid in full by access to those secrets and treasures, by the right to your voice being heard before the Council, and by respect of all Brothers for your work."

The king started to wave long fingers in the air. "By this token, we the Council award you your first true possession; no child's trifle this, but a work of great artifice, the _grisherur_ of an elder craftsman, custom made for you, and it is yours and yours alone until the day you die."

The goblin tugged something from thin air, which sent a little ripple of distorted space around the room, and handed the object to the boy.

Harry took the pair of glasses, acutely aware that he had left his own behind somewhere in the last few rooms. The silver frames were banded in six places with minuscule runes, no larger than an ant, and Harry's fingers detected several complex charms upon them. Tears of gratitude sprung to his eyes, and he couldn't keep the grin off his face as he stared around the room.

The king made a grand gesture above Harry's head, and the crowd began to cheer.

The ceremony ended. The healers converged upon him.

* * *

Dumbledore had gone pale for a moment. "He has _never_ been there? But I put him there myself, under cover of darkness."

Madam Bones sighed, feeling her age. It was hard to stay angry at the twinkle-eyed old man who had saved the world from Grindelwald those many years ago, and was still rather formidable. It was far more important to make sure Harry Potter was safe.

"I thought some immensely skilled and powerful wizard must have evaded the wards... since they were never tripped, never broken." Dumbledore composed himself, turning a lost look into one of mild worry. "Clearly I miscalculated."

"The boy has never been with his relatives, yet he's not dead. The ward-strings would have withered away if that happened. Am I right?"

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "Indeed. They would also be blazing with heat if he was being mentally or physically tortured."

"We'll keep his disappearance secret while we investigate it," Madam Bones said briskly. "For as long as we can manage, anyway. If the kidnappers don't know we're onto them – and why would they think so, after seven years? – they might let their guard down."

She sighed heavily. "Do you have any bright ideas as to who would have taken him with good intentions?"

The manhunt began.

* * *

After the healers had fussed over Harry with salves and bandages and potions and prodding fingers, he returned to his home dwelling with Sibilig and Badluk. It was slow going; he had to navigate a crowd of well-wishers intent on slapping him on the back or grasping his arm in pride. He thanked each goblin quickly for their sentiments, allowing them to hurry off and see to their business of the day.

At last they reached the Stone Downs on the north edge of Underfoot, where Sibilig and Badluk's dwelling lay on a tidy plot of land planted with various fungi. Spinneret Crescent led towards the heart of the city, and the Dusk Track led up into a stalagmite forest where wild rock worms lived.

Harry's family retired to the kitchen. His foster mother was a little teary with pride.

His foster father's eyes were suspiciously wet too. "Spore allergies," Badluk lied hoarsely. "Always bad this time of year. Affect my throat, too." He grimaced and hugged Harry tightly.

Harry was surprised to realise that he had outstripped his mother's height and was now just a few inches away from Badluk's own.

Sibilig had boiled the kettle, and poured them each a cup of steaming _bakh_. The drink was extremely strong, flavoured with various resins, and had overtones of peppermint and cinnamon to its bitterness.

Harry drank deeply. The taste was familiar, and helped to ground him after recent events. He realised he was feeling a little insecure without his knives, or even his staff. Of course, now he could make his own, and they would be _his_.

He had wanted to apologise to his uncle, who had been at the _gadammeruk_ ceremony, about the ruining of the good knife, but knew it would only have earned him a cuff about the head. He could imagine the growl now. "Did you learn _nothing_ about worth this last day?"

Badluk had lit his pipe, and now that they were in the privacy of the dwelling, was speaking about the threefold challenge. "Pah. I can't believe they sent a firebat after you."

"You weren't involved?" Harry asked curiously, sitting down at the kitchen table.

"No," Badluk explained, "We could only watch. As your guardians, it would be a severe conflict of interest."

Harry nodded solemnly. He had been taught that such things had dire consequences.

Sibilig rubbed a finger against her lower lip and said, "I suspect they chose something as dangerous as a firebat to make sure that any unheard dissenters were placated. Having to kill such a creature would quell any suggestion that the Council singled you out for special treatment by devising an easy test."

"So... that was a harder than usual _gadammeruk_?" Harry felt both proud and annoyed, and even somewhat frightened. He hadn't been aware there might be people unhappy about his joining the Brotherhood, either.

"A little harder, perhaps," his foster mother said. "But each_ gadammeruk_ is dangerous. That is how I got this scar."

She rolled up the leg of her soft leather leggings and showed a jagged, dark stripe below her knee. Harry's eyebrows rose.

"You didn't think you were the only one in the family with a scar, did you?" his guardian laughed. "See the greyish edges there? My test of wit involved a bear trap laced with cockatrice venom. Not fatal, so I could keep going, but the damage caused by such a creature never heals."

Badluk hiked up his shirt to show a longer, straighter scar on his side. "I got mine... similarly."

Harry looked at it. The scar was old and faded. "That one looks clean. Why wasn't it healed with magic?"

"I asked the healers not to." His guardian grinned slyly. "You'll understand why when you're a little older."

"This is one of those questions you'll subtly discourage me from exploring, yes?"

"Yes."

"I see." Harry looked between his goblin foster parents. Sibilig was still beaming as she drank her own _bakh_.

Harry applied his inquisitive mind. "So you both came out scarred, yet you think the firebat was difficult?"

His foster mother shrugged. "Perhaps it is over-protectiveness. I had to beat out gold-and-silver armour, and wrestle a troll."

Harry's eyes went round and he turned expectantly to his foster father to hear his comparative story.

"It was just a juvenile one," Badluk whined. "She didn't even have to kill it!"

"It was more than twice my size," Sibilig said mildly.

"What did you fight, Badluk?" Harry pressed, eager to hear his foster father's tale.

Badluk squirmed. "I had to forge keys of silver and gold for a certain lock. Behind the locked door was a lever, which dropped me into a pit to ...combat my foe."

"I'll tell him if you don't," Sibilig said with amusement.

Badluk snarled at her. "The pit was filled with fairy-fury flowers and they dropped a nest of Cornish pixies in after me."

Harry looked at him with disbelief. "So the scar..."

"No." His foster father made a sharp motion with his hand, then sighed. "I was too slow to get out of the way of an opening door," Badluk admitted. "I don't usually tell that part of the story."

Harry's foster mother was smirking.

"The door was covered in blades. I had to try to get through as it rotated! It was difficult!"

Harry's foster mother was still smirking.

"_Speaking_ of doors, ask Sibilig about pushing on doors that open inwards," Badluk said, getting up and taking a precautionary step back around the kitchen table.

Sibilig lost her smirk. "The first two opened outwards! Why would they change the third?"

"She wasted a long, long time on that door," Badluk snarled happily. "Another ten minutes and she would have had to take her whole _gadammeruk _again."

"It had a sign saying 'I measure the strength of your push'!"

"_Obviously_ a metaphor," Badluk scoffed.

"Does everyone get doors?" Harry interjected, as his foster mother reached menacingly towards a loaf of hard flatbread.

She halted with the dense bread in hand, deliberating on whether or not to throw it. "Yes. There are always doors to finish. And the way to get through the doors _always_ involves some sort of deeper meaning."

Harry set his cup down. "Did you both pass your first time?"

"Yes. But I was closer to nine than eight when I first tried, and Badluk made his attempt on his tenth birthday."

Harry felt even prouder now.

"And you both had to return something to the land, to show respect? Is that another constant?"

Both goblins nodded.

"I travelled far and deep, to pour molten steel into a volcanic vent," said his foster mother.

"I composted four buckets full of dead pixies," his foster father said grimly.

* * *

The man smiled, showing off straight, white teeth. "Always a pleasure, Albus! Do stop in any time!"

He waved and beamed as Dumbledore walked down the steps and Disapparated.

Gilderoy Lockhart patted his wavy blonde hair and blew a breath out through his teeth. "Wonder what _that_ was really about. Still, always nice to get some recognition from the Powers That Be."

He stepped back inside.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore was feeling mildly repulsed to learn that Lockhart owned some of the same clothes as he did - a flamboyant orange set of robes with wide lapels on which pale blue unicorns danced. The Headmaster was hastening back to the DMLE to report that one of his first guesses had been wrong. The man might be utterly obsessed with fame and the famous, but he had never abducted the Boy Who Lived.

Dumbledore had seen nothing truly malicious in his surface scans of the man's mind, just fluff and narcissism. Nobody was so good an actor that they could have kidnapped Harry Potter and then sat through tea with Dumbledore and not even _think_ of the boy. Unless they had been obliviated, but the Headmaster had his own reasons for suspecting that nobody would get one over Gilderoy Lockhart via a memory charm.

Albus appeared in the Ministry Atrium, still feeling slightly nauseated. He wondered if he had time to take a bath before visiting his next suspect.

* * *

"So what are we to do in celebration?" Sibilig asked.

Harry raised his head, blinking.

"Tired?" Badluk asked sympathetically. "I expect you'll be sleeping in a lot for a few days."

"'m not tired. 'm just... resting." Suddenly Harry's eyes opened a little more, and he sat up straight. "You said you'd tell me all sorts of things when I reached my majority of Brotherhood, and could be counted on to keep them secret. And I'd get-" he clamped his mouth shut.

"A wand?" A corner of Badluk's mouth twitched upwards.

"Very well," said Sibilig. "Secrets first, or wand?"

"Secrets," said Harry quickly.

"The Brotherhood secrets will take days, at least," Badluk cautioned. "Diagon Alley just one morning. Now that you can possess things of your own, there are several important objects you should have, not only a wand."

"Wand, then," said Harry promptly. "Can I do the glamour?"

His guardians exchanged looks. "No. Not until you've learned to properly change your skin colour and bone structure, and cover your curse scar. Your magic is quite limited, and you are still recognisable, as it stands."

"But that's powerful illusion. It'll be _years_ before I can do that."

"It matters not, since one in the know can penetrate a glamour of any strength with little effort. You can change the hair and eyes, therefore, and I shall do the rest. Fair?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

* * *

Molly Weasley blushed at the compliment to her baking. Dumbledore met her eyes as his own twinkled madly. He took the opportunity to probe her thoughts a little more deeply.

When the conversation had turned to her youngest son, Dumbledore had mentioned that Harry Potter would be of school age at the same time as Ronald. This engendered only hopes that they would be in the same classes, and queries as to how the 'poor dear' was doing.

Molly had heard no recent rumours about the Boy Who Lived, and said Arthur had mentioned nothing either. Dumbledore knew she was puzzled as to why he had dropped in for tea, when they had barely spoken since the deaths of her brothers, and would be equally puzzled by his questions about Harry Potter. Rather than risk letting her inadvertently spread rumours detrimental to the Auror investigation, he murmured hints about a pureblood conspiracy to subvert the child's views, and said he trusted she could keep it all under her hat. He probably could; Molly Weasley might listen to gossip, but she wouldn't spread it.

Soon after, he left, full of tea, scones and blueberry fudge.

Madam Bones had let Dumbledore do the round of his own suspects, having very carefully decided she did _not_ know, in the circumstances, that he was a Legilimens. To use legilimency without a warrant exposed a person to assault charges. Such a thing could not, obviously, be endorsed by the Head of the DMLE, so she took care to occupy herself with the _official_ investigation.

Dumbledore decided not to report back yet, as there were two more people he had to drop in on. He would talk to Amelia after that, then make one quick check at Azkaban, before having nothing but the Aurors to rely on.

He Apparated directly to his next destination, a tiny house on a forested plot of land deep in the countryside. The Headmaster mused silently as he strolled up to the door. On reflection, the intersection of the sets "people who mean Harry Potter no harm" and "people likely to abduct Harry Potter without necessarily mentioning it to Albus Dumbledore" was very small.

This person really had to be his prime suspect.

* * *

Roderick Ollivander heard the soft tinkling of the chime and looked up. A tall, sandy-haired man had stepped into his shop, followed by a small boy who looked rather like him. Ollivander was surprised to see two goblins in finely tailored suits stepped in immediately after, and after them, two _more_ goblins. These last were Gringotts guards, in midnight blue surcoats over shining silvery mail hauberks. One took up station at the door and the other disappeared into one of the shadowy corners of the shop.

Ollivander narrowed his silver eyes. What legitimate business could goblins have in a wand shop, even accompanying wizards? He brushed wood shavings off his robe and stepped forward around a shelf.

"Good morning. Can I help you gentlemen? And ladies," Ollivander added, noticing one of the suited goblins was female.

"Good morning," said the two humans at the same time, one in a quiet baritone, the other a child's high voice.

Ollivander's eyes, drawing on almost two centuries of experience with magic, told him immediately that the boy was under an illusion spell. Following the wandmaker's stare, the middle-aged wizard stooped to wave one hand in front of the child's face.

The glamour vanished, and the wizard straightened to give Ollivander an apologetic look. "It's been helpful to keep him out of trouble in the Alley, but I knew you'd never be fooled, sir."

Ollivander was staring at the child before him. Ash blonde hair had been replaced by black, and the bright blue eyes behind the lenses of the boy's beautiful silver glasses had changed to an equally bright green.

The face had become a little wider, a little younger, and pale almost to the point of being chalk-white. Ollivander recognised that face.

"Mr Potter. I... did not expect to see you so soon," the wandmaker said, a little put out at this new mystery. He turned his eyes at last to the wizard. "And, ah, Mr Scintillion. Yes... Nine inches, alder with a core of demiguise sinew, if I recall. You are Mr Potter's guardian?"

"We promised him a wand on his eighth birthday," the man said, carefully not answering the question. Behind him, the two well-dressed goblins watched Mr Ollivander with mild curiosity.

"He is nowhere near Hogwarts age, then. He cannot use any wand he owns until he is at the school, I trust you know that."

"And yet he is allowed to own one," Boris Scintillion said mildly, hand laid firmly on Harry's shoulder to prevent him speaking. "And I'm sure you will register it correctly, and that the Ministry will be doing their job monitoring the Trace, so all is as it should be. These are some business associates," he added, waving a hand lazily at the goblins.

Ollivander held his gaze for a few seconds, and then disappeared into the back of the shop.

He emerged again with a stack of slim boxes. "It's the wand that chooses the wizard, Mr Potter. A skilled wandmaker can often make a match by eye, but when it comes down to it, the wand has the final say. Try this one."

He waved Harry into a spindly chair and handed over the first wand. "Beech and dragon heartstring. Nine inches, quite flexible."

Harry took the piece of wood and looked at it appraisingly. "Do I..."

"Just give it a wave."

The boy did, but nothing happened. Ollivander took it back and passed over another. "Dagon pine and kelpie tailhair, thirteen inches, quite temperamental but excellent for water-charms. No? Well then, this one..."

Ten minutes later, Ollivander was smiling. "I do like a challenge, Mr Potter. I'm sure we'll find a perfect match. Now, that twelve-inch holly with the core of nundu eyelashes seemed quite close, I think. How about – I wonder – yes, why not? Here, an unusual combination, holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, fairly supple."

The boy's face lit up as soon as he touched the wand, and he raised it above his head. A stream of pale blue sparks swirled from the end to make strange, spidery shapes which danced in the air before slipping, squeaking piteously, into the shadows.

"Well done, Mr Potter, well done indeed. Quite a strong response. Curious, though."

Mr Ollivander held out his hand for the wand so that he could wrap it, but the boy was examining the object, smiling to himself.

Ollivander frowned. "Curious, very curious."

The boy twisted the wand gently from side to side in his hand, still peering down at the polished wood. The two formally dressed goblins grinned openly, and Boris Scintillion reached out to gently shake the boy's shoulder.

"Very curious indeed, Mr Potter," the wandmaker said.

Harry looked up guilty. "Oh, I'm sorry, I was admiring the Invisible Runes. It is superb work, sir, I can barely see them at all. I'm really sorry, what were you saying?"

"_You_ can _see_ my _Invisible Runes_?"

* * *

Lupin was worried. He had barely seen Albus Dumbledore for seven years, and now the inscrutable wizard had dropped by "in passing".

Given that Remus lived thirty miles from the nearest small town, this seemed something of a stretch.

"Tea?" he asked politely, taking the old iron kettle off the heat. It was two days since the full moon; his hands barely trembled. He still felt weak and out of sorts, though.

"Oh, don't go to the trouble on my account, dear boy," Dumbledore said hastily. "I shan't be long, I expect."

Remus frowned slightly. "I was going to make a pot anyway. You take lemon rather than milk, I'd imagine?"

Dumbledore nodded.

"What brings you here, then, Headmaster?"

Blue eyes watched him carefully. "A small matter has come up..."

* * *

"Wir I guhduh-" Harry took the toffee wafer out of his mouth and tried again. "Will I go to Hogwarts? I noticed Mr Ollivander assumed that I would, but we haven't really talked about it much."

Sibilig sneered good-naturedly at her foster son's gooey face and passed him a napkin. "Yes, you do notice things, don't you?"

The four of them were sitting outside Fortescue's, their guards standing unobtrusively against the red brick walls. Harry's identity was concealed by a glamour once more.

"Mr Ollivander for some reason found it hard to believe a child, even a goblin-raised child, could read Invisible Runes," said Badluk snarkily. "Did you stop to think that perhaps none of his other assumptions are credible, either?"

His mate kicked him under the table.

"Do you _want_ to go to Hogwarts when you're eleven?" Sibilig asked carefully.

Harry looked at her from the corner of his eye, trying to judge her mood. "It sounds exciting, I suppose, but really, so does a mastery in goldsmithing or vault-warding. I don't know enough about it to decide."

"Perhaps we need to buy you some books, is that it?" Badluk said, then yelped as Sibilig kicked him again.

"Does Hogwarts have as many books as the Underfoot libraries?" Harry asked plaintively.

"Maybe Mr Scintillion can fill you in?" Sibilig said, and turned to the wizard.

Boris, leaning back in his chair and enjoying a mint ice cream on company time for the first time ever, started guiltily, and hurriedly wiped his mouth. "Uh, right. Hogwarts? Well..." He halted, torn between his natural effusiveness about the locus of wizarding Britain, and not wanting to offend his employers.

"Just the truth, Boris," said Badluk, eyes glittering.

"Er. Yes. My years at Hogwarts were the best time of my life, Harry, they really were. It's not just about learning magic – wizard magic, that is, I know your own studies are progressing well – but there are friends and important contacts to make, too. You'd learn more about the wizarding world by immersing yourself at Hogwarts then you ever could through your books."

Boris knew how to talk to goblins, and continued. "Of course, I don't know your ambitions, or what awaits you underground, so whether or not the pay-off is better compared to living with the Brotherhood depends on the weights of your personal values. You would gain a lot of social capital by attending Hogwarts. What I can say is that if you _do_ decide to get a wizarding education, Hogwarts would certainly be the best choice if you intend to have business or political interests in Britain or the Continent."

"You could live a normal and rewarding life in Underfoot with the people you know, Harry," Sibilig said carefully, stirring the spoon in her clove-and-licorice milkshake. "But you could also do great things in the wizarding world. Indeed, or both."

Harry was aware of a certain amount of pussy-footing still going on. "What do you and Badluk want? What do you _expect_ of me?" He grinned a feral grin. "Just the truth, Sibilig."

His foster mother looked at his foster father, who was stirring uneasily.

"We hope – the Council hopes, really – that you will go to Hogwarts and grow up with an understanding of our two societies and the rift between them. With a little work, you will have a considerable amount of political clout when you are older. We don't _expect_ you to fix what is broken, and restore goblins to an equal footing in the magical world, but we hope that you will at least ...help, in our long struggle."

"You still have three years to make your decision about Hogwarts," Badluk added.

"Yes."

"Yes." Harry nodded, appreciating how frank his guardians had been with him. It was already clear. The Brotherhood had been everything to the boy, had brought him up, had fed him and clothed him, taught him and cherished him.

Now he had a goal to work towards.

* * *

"I want your word that you have not abducted Harry Potter."

Tea splashed across the floor and dripped off Lupin's chin.

Dumbledore cleaned it up with a gesture, but continued to watch Remus intently. Werewolves, being pseudo-human and with ancient curse-magic affecting their minds, could not be legilimised. Albus was looking for subtle 'tells' in the man's body language. So he needed to bring up the matter of the abduction directly.

He also had to admit that he was feeling guilty. Guilty about not speaking to the man sooner on the matter of his friend's son. Guilty about doing nothing for Remus after he lost his four best friends in one night. Guilty about leaving his only link to them with muggles for the foreseeable future... and then losing that link.

"_What_?" Lupin roared. "_Abducted_? I couldn't- Dumbledore- you're not telling me-"

He went pale, looking at the Headmaster's solemn face. "Merlin. Tell me he's alive, at least."

Dumbledore sat back in his seat, still watching the werewolf, and deciding at once to tell him everything. "He is alive, that much we know. But he is missing. As far as we can tell, he was never taken in by his muggle relatives, but was removed by somebody who meant him no harm, for unknown reasons."

Dumbledore concentrated, and showed the threads of the blood wards' signature for a second. "He is not in any pain or mental distress."

Lupin's hands had been trembling, and now crushed a teacup into shards of cheap china. Blood dripped from his palm, but he didn't seem to notice.

"I wasn't even allowed to _see_ him, and now it turns out he's been missing for, what, seven years? I don't believe this."

He seemed to be struck by a thought, and scowled at Dumbledore. "You _have_ gone to the Aurors with this, haven't you?"

"Of course." Dumbledore put his own teacup aside, and spread his hands. "Remus, we have very little to go on. Madam Bones believes he has left the country, since there haven't even been any credible 'Harry Potter sightings' in the Daily Prophet or the witches' magazines. We have essentially no trail to follow, Remus."

Lupin stood up and began to pace around nervously, his hands twitching into fists. He whirled on Dumbledore. "I'm between jobs, I'll sniff around. If there _is_ a trail, I'll be able to find it. Where should I start?"

Dumbledore was a little relieved at the offer. "I would try the obvious places first: Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, Godric's Hollow – the memorial there in particular, if you don't mind – and perhaps some of the magical districts. Cornwall Coast, Wintergreen Village, Ottery St Catchpole, Dirk's Common, Court-Under-The-Hill."

Lupin nodded sharply, going to the fireplace and picking up an old jam jar full of Floo powder. "And what are _you_ doing about all this?"

Dumbledore said, resignedly, "I'm going to see Black – and the former Black – to ensure this is not some old contingency plan of Voldemort's, that has come into play."

He sighed, and got up heavily. If he had known how much tea he would be drinking today, he wouldn't have breakfasted. "Please do nose around, Remus, but don't question anyone about Harry. There will be undercover Aurors doing that, subtly. The investigation is a secret one for now, so that word doesn't get out that we're looking. Trust me, it's better this way."

Remus paused in the fireplace for a moment, as green flames roared around him. "Should I ever have trusted you?"

Looking sad and sloshing slightly, Dumbledore left.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ Long chapter today. The large number of reviews I've been getting is heartening. Thanks!

→ Some people might be concerned that Harry is getting super-powered. If this is true, and the challenges are the same as in canon, this means less conflict and a more boring story. To that end, I'll note that Harry's powers are at least _different_. Canon-Harry spent most of his childhood ostracised and doing menial labour, so his skillset is very poor. Canon-Harry is already at a disadvantage to other wizards. Because my goblins make their children study and work from young ages, it means that Harry is ahead of his canon counterpart and other wizarding eight-year-olds, in terms of vocabulary, critical thinking, etc. It follows that I need to present him with stronger challenges than in canon in order to make this an interesting story.

→ If anyone is interested in reading what it might be like if Lockhart _had_ taken Harry, I direct you to "When In Doubt, Obliviate" by Sarah1281. It's a great read so far.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 6**

* * *

"Ice mice? Aniseed golems? Great, thanks!"

Harry had been told not to say things like "I thank you, Brother of mine," while above ground.

"Well, it's not every day you have a day after your birthday," Boris Scintillion said, ruffling his hair.

"Which is why we'll be paying," said Sibilig. "From now on, though, we shall be making more frequent trips. You will start purchasing needful things yourself. A practical introduction to economy."

"For Hogwarts gear?" Harry asked chirpily, biting the tail off one of the ice mice. His foster parents had been silently pleased when the child had gone quiet for a few minutes before decisively announcing that he would, indeed, attend Hogwarts.

"We shall enter negotiations about such things as necessary books and wizarding equipment. It is only right that your guardians pay for the necessities, at least," said Badluk firmly.

"Good. Are you going to put me to working in Gringotts part-time to pay for it?" The apprenticeships Harry was doing in Underfoot merely countersunk the cost of his upkeep. It was only training in the bank itself that was paid for in Galleons. Even then, the vast majority of goblins had little use for individual wealth.

Badluk snorted. Harry clearly hadn't remembered his parents' Gringotts vault. And then there was a certain other pair of accounts – not filled with substantial amounts of coin, but comprising a worthwhile sum when taken in tandem. Still, the boy had a good attitude. Goblins _despised_ laziness.

"I think I'm glad you didn't get me those cockroach clusters, Sibilig," Harry added, practically skipping down the street. "They looked kind of like the honeyed cave locusts which Pogsheen always gives me. I hate those."

Sibilig shook her head and frowned. "I doubt they are actual cockroaches, which even humans consider vermin. Still, you never know with wizards' tastes. A client of mine once casually admitted a penchant for 'ice cream spiders'. Perhaps such things are aimed at the hag market."

Harry shuddered at the thought of hags, dark creatures that had once been witches, before contracting a terrible curse that drove them to eat the flesh and organs of children.

Then he turned his attention to the small paper bag in his hand. "These merlin balls are nice, too. Much sweeter than our candy, though. And I still prefer walnuts."

"Goblin candy will not rot your teeth or your mind with sugar," Badluk said absently, scanning Diagon Alley. "I hope it is a worthwhile tradeoff."

The goblin looked between the two tailors' shops that were in sight. He glanced up at Mr Scintillion, who was performing some sort of charm on himself. "Suitable clothing?"

The wizard smiled, and nodded towards the nearest. "Madam Malkin is known to be very discreet."

They bought some wizard clothes for Harry, and indeed not a single eyebrow was raised when the boy took off his hooded cloak to reveal the soft leather ensemble beneath. He squirmed annoyingly, not used to strangers plucking at his shoulders or measuring his legs, but they eventually walked out with several sets of fine robes.

Sibilig and Badluk were buying him nothing that could not be better goblin-crafted, of course. Harry was bewildered by the strange cloth and odd cut of the garments he now had.

He shoved the boxes eagerly into Badluk's hands when he saw where they were headed next.

Books were _much_ more exciting than clothes!

* * *

"Aaaalbus!"

The cry came like a delighted foghorn, carrying across rough seas of chintz. Dumbledore stepped inside with the small, broad figure fluttering around him, taking his cloak, grasping his hand and hustling him to an armchair.

The squat man vanished momentarily before returning with a tea tray. "I'm delighted to see you again, Albus, please do sit, I can offer you crystallised beetroot, candied pineapple, pomegranate treacle..."

The bald man's enormous moustache quivered about, bracketing the gale of conversation as he poured tea for Dumbledore, who sat back and regarded him.

Horace Slughorn was at once a jovial figure and a ludicrous one, small and plump and dressed in plush, stripy velvet. But underneath that innocuous exterior was a mind which exemplified his Slytherin traits. And the man was an accomplished Occlumens, to boot.

While Lockhart was an open book with colourful pictures, Horace was a tightly-rolled scroll of parchment.

He didn't _think_ Slughorn would try to get his overeager mitts on Harry Potter by stealing him away. It didn't seem Horace's style at all. But then, Dumbledore had never _thought_ Harry might be anywhere but safe with his relatives.

"You're really not having tea, Albus?"

"I'm afraid I just had ...some," Dumbledore said, steepling his fingers. "How are you, Horace? Enjoying the slower pace of retirement, or making good use of your potions mastery?"

"Indeed yes, Albus, certainly the latter, although it's never quite as rewarding as Hogwarts, of course. I'm contracted with St Mungo's at the moment, and I'm brewing for one of the very oldest noble families, very interesting stuff but there are confidentiality agreements, oh my yes. I'm consulting in various Ministry departments too, of course, I expect they'd fall over without my advice. But you know all about that, don't you?"

Horace's pale eyes twinkled at Dumbledore, who was disconcerted to find himself on the receiving end of that particular effect for once.

"I'd give my advice to them for free, of course, but they've been quite adamant about the salary! Yes, I'm doing quite nicely indeed, and I trust you are well, Albus?" The diminutive man bit into a piece of sugar-frosted zucchini with signs of great pleasure.

A considerable amount of small talk ensued. In just the last week Horace had taken tea with the Minister's niece and the Crown Prince of Wizarding Finland, attended the wedding of Barnabas Cuffe, editor of the Daily Prophet, given heartfelt landscaping advice to Lady Greengrass, received tickets to a ballet from the muggle government's Crown Prosecutor, introduced two affable Lords to a high-flying griffin feather salesman, and sat in on an almost unheard-of diplomatic meeting between House Salisbury and the Unseelie Nation of Southern England.

Dumbledore barely got a word in edgewise, but was reassured by how enthusiastic and open the Slytherin was being with him. Unless that was a bluff, of course.

Horace was angling for a letter of recommendation for a former student: Dirk Cresswell was hoping to overcome his muggleborn status to rise to the position of Undersecretary of the Goblin Liaison Office. "I'd write it myself, but his prospects would be so much better coming from you. And that boy will go far, you mark my words, Albus!"

"I'm sure you have more influence then you think, Horace," Dumbledore said, causing the little man to inflate proudly. "No, really. The way I heard it, Lily Evans received her offer from the Committee on Experimental Charms purely on the strength of your recommendation as her Potions professor."

Dumbledore poured himself a cup of tea as he spoke, and lifted the teacup to his lips, watching Slughorn casually over the rim.

"Oh, Lily, poor dear Lily." Horace shook his head mournfully, moustache swinging about like a pair of silver feather dusters. "Possibly my best student ever, such promise, such promise. And James, what an outstanding young man. How is young Harry, do you know? Do you suppose he might appreciate me sending him pictures of his parents?"

The man's eyes gleamed at the thought of bringing the Boy Who Lived into the fold of the 'Slug Club'.

"He might, Horace, although he is only eight years old yet," Dumbledore said slowly. "However, your post will probably not reach him. I trust you'll understand that we've had to keep him under very strong security. There are surely large numbers of people who mean him harm."

"Yes, yes indeed, I suppose that would be the case," Horace murmured, suddenly reflective. Then he looked up sharply. "Perhaps you could bring him to visit sometime? I'd truly love to meet Lily's son, Albus. I'm sure he's a charming lad. And if he is anything at all like her, I think we must expect great things of young Harry!"

This response was natural enough to persuade Dumbledore that Slughorn had no idea about the boy's whereabouts.

"I can't promise anything, Horace," he said, getting up. "We may have to leave it until he is at least Hogwarts age. I'm afraid I really must take my leave, Horace, thank you for your hospitality. The tea was quite superb."

Slughorn frowned, but stood. "Do stop by any time, Albus, oh – and I may forward a letter or two to you, Robert Sneezing is writing a biography of great wizards of the light and asked me the best way to approach you for an interview, and Arcturus MacMillan wants to return to Hogwarts as an apprentice to take her Herbology Mastery, I'd consider it a great personal favour if you accepted, and I told Charity Burbage to stop by also, she's looking for a research position..."

Slughorn slapped him on the back as high as he could reach and waved him out of the door. "Do give my regards to Pomona!"

* * *

Harry moved around Flourish & Blotts like a small ash-blonde tornado, ecstatic to be picking out books of his own. Up until now he had only been allowed to take home some of the more replaceable scrolls and volumes from the Underfoot library. And he had examined all the books in his parents' shelves, of course. Sibilig, as Manager of the Training Department, had books on the goblin-oaths and codes of conduct, as well as tomes for her hobbies of gardening, and Assyrian goblin-curses. Badluk had shelf upon shelf of extremely dry legal grimoires to help him in his role as Manager of the Inheritance and Contract Law Department. Harry had read fragments of these, as well as Badluk's books about his private passions: bronze miniatures and drying his own tobacco.

After his initial beeline for books on different kinds of runes, Harry shot about to look at manuals of basic warding and then wizarding texts. His guardians, under advisement from Boris, picked up Adalbert Waffling's _Magical Theory_, Jon Spellman's famous _Syllabary_, and Ziggy Moonblade's _Enchantment Made Easy_. When Harry asked for books on the plants and creatures of the wizarding world, they added _A Compendium of Arcane Bulbs and Ethereal Flowers_, _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_, and _Principles of the Potion-maker's Art_.

In the history section, Badluk and Sibilig encouraged him to pick out several wizarding books for a different perspective on the past. He also found a tome of ancient centaur lore translated from the original Greek.

Eclipsing all of them, though, was a heavy book of genealogies. Harry gasped aloud when he found a section for the Potter family within it.

There was a rambling family tree, tangled with many other trees via footnotes and page references for the other families. Harry fully intended to track his family back as far it went and see if he had relations in the wizarding world.

Harry placed his finger reverently on the words _James Potter & Lily Evans_. A tiny balloon of ink next to the names blossomed into information on their full names, dates of birth and death, notable relations, education, and in the case of his father, insignia.

James Potter's sign was a small coloured shield. The crest had a curling black 'P' embossed heavily in gold, while the shield itself was dark red. The top of the shield featured a sword lying from left to right, with a black crown imprinted upon it.

"Wow," Harry breathed as his fingers slid up the page to the next leaf.

The names _Charlus Potter & Dorea Black_ blossomed into new bubbles of text. Lord Charlus Potter was a pureblood Gryffindor who lived from 1917 to 1979, with the same Potter crest as Harry's father. Dorea Black was a pureblood Slytherin, 1920-1977, with a crest of black ravens on white and black dagger on red, topped by a skull on a background of vines.

Above them were Lady Magenta Potter, a Hufflepuff, and Maximilian Yaxley, whose icon featured a knot of silver centipedes on a midnight blue background.

Harry's eyes moved on and on as he traced through centuries of history.

Then he blinked as a hand waved in front of his face. "Harry?" Boris leaned down kindly. "You've been staring into that page for a good five minutes, now."

"It's- it's got my birth parents in it!"

Sibilig and Badluk had walked over to see. They found that the book tracked all the ancient families, as well as the monopolies and privileges granted to them, their former and extant rights in wizarding law, ownership of Wizengamot seats and the former disposition of expired lines.

That was well worth the hefty fourteen-Galleon price tag, and it was added to the pile.

Fifteen minutes later, they approached the counter with Boris Scintillion wobbling unsteadily, a stack of twelve books in his arms.

* * *

When the group passed by a broomstick shop on the way back to Gringotts, Harry had looked speculatively at the brooms. There wasn't enough room in most of the cavern-city to fly, and the minecarts were more than adequate to transport people through the bank.

Harry glanced up to consider the wide open sky, visible above the towering shopfronts, then clamped his gaze back to the ground firmly, feeling slightly queasy.

He was glad to return to Gringotts. He thanked Mr Scintillion and the wizard was dismissed for the day. They were travelling on oiled rails in the depths of the bank when Badluk peered over the stack of packages between the impassive guards. "Evening will be falling soon. Do you want to start learning the Brothers' secrets in what remains of the day?"

"Well, yes, but – I did still want to see my friends and cousins today," Harry admitted.

Sibilig glanced back at him. "That would be well. It is likely that some will have small gifts and tokens for you."

Harry nodded. They wouldn't be for his birthday, of course; goblins didn't celebrate the passing of years in any personal sense. But he'd seen tokens given when others passed their _gadammeruk_ and entered the Brotherhood.

And now he could join in the quiet, secret conversations with those who had already passed. He could discuss his own threefold challenge, and find about their own tests of wit.

He grinned. "Can we start learning first thing in the morning, if you're not needed in your office?" he called forward, over the whistling passage of air.

"No, your apprenticeships still stand," Badluk said firmly. "If you get up early enough to begin work, though, perhaps we can start first thing in the afternoon."

Harry nodded and sat back in the gloom in his strange new clothes, enjoying the ride.

* * *

The investigation remained shrouded in secrecy. Madam Bones had only six of her most trustworthy Aurors on it, with several others working on minor aspects without being aware of the overarching case.

That afternoon, though, the facts of the situation were presented to a few key departmental heads. This led, a few hectic hours later, to discreet but urgent questions being asked at the Goblin Liaison Office.

"Harry Potter, you say?" Ziggiz of the Wizarding Law Department asked, raising his wizened brow. "I shall make inquiries."

"So you've heard nothing?" Cuthbert Mockridge pressed, fiddling nervously with his tie.

"I shall make inquiries."

* * *

It had been, Harry reflected, another very long day.

Prettyroot wound around his feet as he sat in bed, yawning massively.

He drank his nightly nutrient potion, then put his glasses on the side-table next to his wand. The table held a number of small gifts which had been given to him by his excited peers. His friend Katlok had forged a small but elegant hand-knife for him; she was a year older than Harry and was excelling at metalwork.

The older goblin youths had shared tales of misery and laughter about their own rites of passage. Harry was privately glad he hadn't had to dig an access tunnel, or break a sun-ward, like some of them. On the other hand, even though he had reflexively toned down his own stories, he had still received several gasps and appraising looks.

He caught his own tiny reflection looking back at him, and sank down in bed, sleepily examining the silver-framed glasses. He wondered idly what the tiny runes around the six equally tiny decorative knobs were for. There were three such clusters spaced along both sides of the frames. His foster parents, grinning fiercely, had told him to work it out himself.

"_Magrakkus_,"he said, waving his fingers of one hand complicatedly at them. There was the faint glow of magic, but nothing he recognised was revealed. Oh, well. He didn't even know what language the runes were in, anyway.

He might try some more goblin-charms tomorrow. Or maybe his new books would have a clue...

Harry drifted off into sleep.

There were no nightmares about firebats or blood or opals, no dreams of books or glamours or the ghastly open sky. He was simply too tired.

* * *

Deep in the bowels of the earth, deep below the first few cockerels stretching their legs in preparation for a good crow, was a dry sandstone chamber. Within the smooth stone walls, a young boy's hand flew across a sheet of parchment, scribbling numbers in a messy cursive for which he had been scolded many times.

His eyes were down and he only stopped writing to flick at a wooden bead on the abacus every now and then.

Harry grabbed a new page, and sucked thoughtfully at the tip of his quill. Accountancy was definitely his hardest and most tiring apprenticeship, more difficult even than the stoneworking he had recently taken up, more exhausting - in a strange way - than pumping the bellows at the forge. Working with numbers was definitely not his strong point.

He couldn't afford to make too many mistakes and have to start with a new set of problems, though. So after he had rushed through each page he went through it again to check.

The master of numbers, Drobwit, was the second person through the door an hour later, and the rest of the apprentices trickled in for the next hour after that. Drobwit had raised an eyebrow at the young human boy working feverishly at his figures on the low stone bench, but made no comment.

Unlike many apprenticeships, students of accounts required no supervision for safety. Harry had thus enjoyed a certain degree of independence in his work. As the morning wore on he kept his head down, staying well ahead of the rest of the goblins in the day's work. He had all his tallies completed soon after lunch, having barely exchanged a word with anyone. Only a few of the senior apprentices had finished the same number of figures, and they had their own advanced material to move on to.

Drobwit went over the first few pages of Harry's work, hummed a brief note of what Harry recognised as pleased surprise, and put the rest of the parchments in his tray. The master of numbers gave the boy a knowing scowl, then a sharp nod.

"Thank you, sir!"

Harry hurried off.

* * *

A Gringotts guard goblin accompanied him up through passages and the maze in the depths of the bank, chatting amiably about the stonefly blight her mate was fighting on the potato crop, and asking about Harry's ventures out into the wizard world.

His guardians met them amidst the vaults on the deep seven-hundreds level, and both grinned at Harry's familiar look of excitement.

"You're going to show me the vault wards, right? Are we going to gooo?" He stretched out the last syllable as long as he could.

"Soon," said Sibilig.

"We're waiting on Ziggiz," explained Badluk. "We promised – ah."

Heavy footfalls sounded, and the elderly goblin Ziggiz limped onto the platform from another labyrinthine corridor.

"Ah, Harry. You have your new wand with you, yes?"

Harry blinked at the unexpected question. "Er, yes, Ziggiz." He patted his back pocket to make sure, and tried not to blush. Nobody really wanted to talk about his wand.

"Good," said Sibilig, ushering the small group into a cart. "We have some things you may be interested in testing. The first thing you need to know, Harry, is that you should have access to three Gringotts vaults here."

Harry frowned. He had seen his birth parents' small vault, and had even been allowed inside it on the proviso that he not take anything yet. Fairly reliable gossip amongst the children said that most of the old wizarding clans also had family vaults, and he'd often speculated about the existence of a Potter ancestral vault. He couldn't imagine what a _third_ one could be, though.

They set off with a squeal of iron, and Badluk took over. "The rules on your parents' vault are ...hazy, as you not only are a minor, but you have guardians who are automatically allowed access to any vault. Regardless, there is little in there to interest us. Mere coins. Metal is delightful in its own right, but does not concern us today. You shall have access to that vault from now on to finance any trips to Diagon Alley, or further afield."

Harry's ears pricked up at this last clause. His foster father was not one to toss phrases around lightly.

"What you do not know is that there is a Potter Family vault, set up to maintain the ridiculously-named 'Ancient and Most Noble House' of your ancestors."

_Thrown knives_, thought Harry, smiling to himself. A wizard might have thought, _bingo_.

"As an heir not yet of age, you have a wizarding regent, a man named Albus Dumbledore. You have probably heard of him. He is... better than many, it must be said. He has strictly limited access to that vault in your absence. He has not used it."

Badluk peered into the echoing darkness for a few seconds, thinking about something.

"There is also a Black Family vault," he said at last. "You are named heir to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black."

"Really? Why is-" Harry broke off, and gripped his foster mother's arm tightly. He looked between the impassive faces. "You told me that- that a human wizard named Sirius Black betrayed my parents and killed one of their friends."

Badluk nodded slowly. "He was the last heir to the Black name, following the death of his father Orion and brother Regulus. And he named you heir in turn, so upon his incarceration, the rights did not revert to the elder Walburga Black."

Ziggiz cleared his throat and spoke in his slightly hoarse voice. "In British wizarddom, three conditions must be met for an imprisoned Lord to be legally dead, for matters of inheritance. He must have a life sentence, have served at least a year of that sentence, and have no legal recourse for appeal. Despite some ...unique circumstances, we eventually determined that all three hold in this case. So his family vault passes to you."

Harry shivered, and not because of the whistling wind.

Sibilig put an arm around him. "There is a witch named Andromeda Tonks, née Black, acting as the Black regent, but she has done little with her restricted access to the family vault. We do not know if she is unaware of the extent of her legal rights to manage that account, with the Lord legally dead, or if she is simply uninterested. She has not even claimed the – well, you will see."

"You have a twofold inheritance, both legal and financial," said Badluk, clapping his foster son on the shoulder. "And it is quite possible that today you will come into it. We shall see, we shall see. Yes."

"Yes," said Ziggiz.

* * *

After the initial shock, Harry had mixed feelings about the news. The idea of someday being a 'Lord Potter' was ridiculous enough, but being a 'Lord Black' was just _eerie_.

"But _why_ would he name me heir?"

Three of the goblins shrugged. The guard was politely pretending to be oblivious to the conversation, but her eyes occasionally flickered over to them.

"The conjecture is that he was, at one time, a genuine friend of your birth parents," Ziggiz said crisply.

"Why would he-"

"Wizards fall out as surely as debris from the ceiling of an unshored tunnel."

"He was named as a possible guardian in the Potters' will," added Badluk. "I hope I don't need to tell you that the contents of any such testament is a secret of the Brotherhood, by the way."

Harry frowned. Both 'Potter' and 'Black' had stood out in his genealogy book. He remembered he'd come across them a few times in the history department of Underfoot's library, too. As an heir to the two houses, it seemed he would have a certain amount of clout if he chose to enter the 'wizarding world' he'd heard so many bad things about. Not magical powers, of course – that would be ridiculous – or even any _overt_ political power. But the world worked on unwritten rules.

_There was no point throwing away a useful tool to save shed space_, the old saying went. On the other hand, the name Black...

On the _other_ other hand, Sibilig was muttering in his ear some of the secrets of the Gringotts side of the Brotherhood, and it was proving quite a successful distraction.

"If you use your illusion-revealing charm around this corner, you'll see a faint glow. The rock face conceals a ring of probity probes which scan each passing cart in three dimensions. Some of Bogripple's pet humans maintain the parts for them. That waterfall in the distance carries a powerful charm, revealing all that is hidden. Look down when we go over the bridge, and you'll see a mated pair of Antipodean Opaleyes. We keep false eggs in the nest so they become more territorial. All along here are false vault doors, the _actual_ seven-hundreds level is below and to the left of these. We keep trolls in most of the false vaults, but a few house some of the more _interesting_ tomb guardians recovered from Egypt. The latter are cheaper since they don't eat, except their victims."

Badluk wrinkled his nose at Harry and gestured at the rails, which were spitting up showers of sparks now. "Notice anything about them?"

Harry frowned and reached out, lowering his hand cautiously until it was just a foot above the spitting iron. "Not... really. Is it just poor maintenance causing the sparks?"

His guardians and Ziggiz shook their heads.

Harry closed his eyes to concentrate a little harder. "I still can't- wait, I can barely sense the metal. Some sort of magic-dampening charm?"

"Dead Sea Runes," Badluk grinned toothily. "They completely suck away all wizard magic for the last stretch of track. You can't slow the cart except with goblin-charms, so any customer who gets this far and wants to make a break for someone else's vault has to either time a jump at speed, or break their neck."

"If the symbols are embossed or carved deeply, that explains the sparks," said Harry thoughtfully as they rolled to a stop.

Badluk nodded. "And here we are. The vault of House Potter, number 787."

* * *

"Interestingly, it's directly below the Potter vault which belonged to your parents," Sibilig said. "You may not be able to tell, since the rails don't only corkscrew. They also pass through several disorienting wards."

As she spoke, she was absently stroking the huge metal door with two long fingers. A bright note sang out, and a keyhole appeared.

Badluk snapped his fingers and a tiny gold key appeared in his hand. He twisted the key sharply in the lock, then consigned it back to wherever it came from.

Finally, Ziggiz whispered something to the door's surface, and there was a high-pitched cackle. Wisps of smoke drifted from the metal and coalesced into a tiny, malevolent figure, which stared at each of them briefly before dispersing into smoke once more, along with the entire door.

"Was that an imp-lock?" Harry asked.

"Yes," the old goblin said, and ushered him forward. "Of course, if it were the head of family seeking access, the process would be simpler. We enter, for now, in our role as maintainers of the vaults. Touch _nothing_."

Harry stepped into the room, and looked about, slightly impressed.

It seemed like somebody had started off stacking things neatly at the right-hand wall, where wooden chests and metal lockboxes were tightly packed in rows. Higher on the wall were racks of vicious-looking weapons and the occasional dinged-up helmet.

But the barrels and boxes in the middle of the room were more haphazard, and by the time the floor reached the left-hand wall it was covered in racks of discarded clothing, piles of leather pouches and trophy heads, random portrait frames scattered across rolls of cloth, and hundreds of loose books and scrolls. A few gems and jewellery boxes were visible in the chaos, but it seemed that for the most part, what got put into the Potter Family vault was nothing more than the detritus of centuries.

Harry's fingers itched to examine things, but he kept them carefully curled at his sides as he walked towards the middle of the room.

"Come over here, Harry," Badluk said. The goblin had made his way to a small stone plinth standing against one wall. Harry picked his way through the room towards his foster father, taking extreme care not to touch any of the stacked and scattered objects. He was joined by the other two managers, while their guard stood, legs splayed, in the vault entrance.

"What is it?"

The broad stone top of the plinth held only a faded cushion. The plush cushion had once been a rich reddish-purple but was now closer to pink. Half its golden tassels were gone, and its velvet was crumbling.

Sibilig sneered and flicked fingers towards it. "The locus of so-called power for the so-called _Noble_ House of Potter. Obviously never repaired since it was first created. When a wizard too full of himself dies, the family's signet ring returns here to await the next lord or regent. In the latter case, the appointed person can access the vault to regain it, in accordance with an old covenant between the Wizengamot and Gringotts."

"Take your wand out, Harry," said Ziggiz. "This may prove quite interesting, yes? Now: stand squarely and touch it to the centre of the cushion. I've heard some families use an incantation, but I believe that to be the exception rather than the rule."

Harry glanced at his foster parents for confirmation, then carefully reached out and pressed the tip of his holly-wood wand firmly into the middle of the cushion.

There was a pause long enough for Harry to wonder exactly what he was doing, and then a golden ring appeared without any fuss on top of his wand on the cushion.

He jerked his hand up reflexively, his wand flicking the ring into the air. It clattered and spun on the floor.

Badluk sighed, picking it up with one hand and the garish cushion with the other. He placed the metal band atop the cushion and offering it to Harry, who stared.

"Your ring, milord."

Sibilig smirked at Badluk's put-upon expression and Harry's frozen one. "It was a risk, getting you a wand, so I hope you're at least going to touch it."

"The wand of the head of family is required to summon the family ring," Ziggiz explained in his dry tones. "You have a registered wand. Furthermore, I was summoned to the Ministry yesterday for a formal request to help discern your whereabouts. This is unlikely to be a coincidence. Indeed, it was earlier than I thought, given wizarding incompetence."

Harry's bemused face became a slightly panicked one. "You shouldn't have done that – got me a wand – just for me! With the danger! I wouldn't have minded not getting one!"

Badluk, who was still holding the cushion stiff-armed, said, "We wouldn't be able to try this if we hadn't allowed you one. And you would need one eventually, if you intend to attend Hogwarts. _And_ we never planned on hiding you forever."

"Of course, we do have stockpiled several dozen illegal wands which we have secured through various means, but to risk bringing them up to Gringotts would be unconscionable," Ziggiz said idly.

"That is a Brotherhood secret and you are never to discuss it," Sibilig put in hurriedly.

Harry nodded. "Why would they be any more dangerous in Gringotts?"

"For one, the Ministry's arm is long enough to reach here – just barely. For another, the wands have what is known as a Trace, a form of magical tracking spell-locked to them with Ministry encryptions we can't break. Since we don't know whether the Trace detects not just spells but also inheritance magic, or whether it can be remotely activated to find an illegal wand, using them outside the highly specialised wards of Underfoot is a very bad idea."

"Also, we didn't know whether you specifically would be able to use any of them. Supposedly a wand has to match a personality. Now," Badluk took a deep breath, "Are you going to take the bloody ring?"

Harry picked up the gold band, ignoring his foster father's exaggerated cries of relief. The goblin put the cushion back down and massaged his wrist theatrically.

"What is it for, exactly?" Harry asked.

"Put it on," said Ziggiz, watching with an unblinking stare.

Harry put it on.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ In response to a few reviews: while not a single point of departure fic, I'm aiming to stay close to canon with as much as possible. I'm assuming Harry is myopic rather than hyperopic. I'm trying to strike the difficult balance of canon!Dumbledore that lies between the fanon extremes of manipulative!Dumbledore and condescending!Dumbledore. Invisible Runes aren't from canon, and while it's not necessarily a throwaway line, it's also not necessarily important.

→ Thanks for reading! Please, if you see a grammatical mistake, spelling error, or plot hole, leave a quick review pointing it out!


	7. Chapter 7

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 7**

* * *

There was a faint flash of warm orange light.

Harry held his breath as the ring seemed to wriggle, shrinking until it was snug around the base of his finger. At the same time, the golden band rippled, and a small, glittering ruby appeared, nestled in tendrils of gold. The gemstone was engraved with a flowing P, against the outline of a shield, sword and crown. Harry recognised the Potter family insignia from his new genealogy book. There was also a curious inner light in the ruby's crimson depths, which flared and died, then spluttered into life again as Harry watched in fascination.

When he looked up, his foster father's fists were clenched, and Ziggiz was peering intently at the flickering ring.

The goblin spoke without moving his gaze. "Now, you know that with your _gadammeruk_ complete, you have reached your majority, as a full Brother amongst the Brotherhood?"

Harry nodded, as the light flared slightly brighter. "Yes."

"Intriguing," the elderly goblin murmured. "The resizing and the appearance of the crest-jewel would at least tentatively suggest the magic recognises him as the new Lord Potter. But the light is insubstantial and irregular. Perhaps... Lord Potter. Yes. The light strengthens substantially whenever I reinforce the idea that he is of age, or use the name 'Lord Potter'."

Harry shrugged, turning his hand to examine the ring from every angle. "What does it mean?"

Ziggiz looked up at last, cracking his knuckles in consideration. "I would venture that the magic is unsure about accepting an eight-year-old as the new head of family. Consider: in the wizarding world, heirs of Noble Houses become lords when they come of age. But there is nothing actually codified in wizarding law to that effect. This implies that what governs the process is one of those strange, ancient magics laid down in the time of Ragnuk and Merlin. Since you have earned your goblin majority, and possess a strong magical core, the magic is uncertain of your lordship. We need another test, I believe."

The elderly goblin tapped a thoughtful finger against his chin. "Harry, twist the ring sharply on your finger and imagine it becoming invisible."

Harry closed his eyes, rather confused, and did so.

"Ah, good. It would seem that much of the magic is working, yes?"

He opened his eyes. Ziggiz was smiling, and the ring was gone! His other hand went instinctively to his finger, and felt cool metal.

Sibilig leaned across and carefully examined his finger, apparently unable to find the golden band at all.

Experimentally, Harry twisted it back, willing it as hard as he could to reappear, and the ring faded into sight.

"Be welcome, Lord Potter, wizard of the High Bloodlines," Ziggiz intoned sonorously, causing Badluk to snigger nastily behind one hand.

"And now, I believe we ought to visit the Black Vault," said Sibilig.

* * *

"How were my parents betrayed?"

Badluk laid a gentle hand on Harry's shoulder. "We have investigated this, but the details are... not clear. Some sort of rare wizard ward was placed over their house, so that nobody but a single person was able to find them. Black was the one entrusted with the secret of their location. Then, one night, Voldemort appeared right at the house, and slew your parents."

Sibilig reached across to grip Harry's other shoulder briefly, as Badluk continued speaking. "That they were betrayed is obvious, as Black was quite unharmed when he returned to the scene. He then hunted down another of your parents' friends, a man named Peter Pettigrew, using a devastating spell which killed a dozen innocent muggles."

Harry shuddered. "So Black was a – what was it? A Death Eater."

"We don't know. He was imprisoned immediately, on the orders of three – well, you could think of them as equivalents of our Managers, for the wizarding world. Dumbledore, Crouch and Bagnold. Black was from a notorious family, but may have only been a sympathiser – his name did not come up when other Death Eaters were tried."

"Then again," Sibilig said, "Many who _were_ named Death Eaters were later acquitted."

"You don't mean they escaped justice?" Harry asked, icy fingers clutching at his heart.

"Many claimed to be blackmailed, or impersonated, or magically controlled. Essentially, those with gold in their pockets were let go free. Others were imprisoned, or in some cases executed."

Tears of anger prickled in Harry's eyes. Goblins were raised with a deep desire for justice which often verged on pure vindictiveness. It was hard to hear that _any_ of the followers of the man who had killed his original parents walked free, with the world aware of what they had done.

It became clear to him, as the wind of rail travel blanketed them, that he now had a second goal in life. If he could achieve just one more thing – after putting his adopted people on an equal tier with the wizard ruling class – it would be to bring these Death Eaters to justice.

Harry didn't know how he felt about Black having been denied trial. That goblin sense of justice was clashing with that goblin vindictiveness. He wanted to see the betrayer, the man who had apparently been a friend of his parents and named him heir to the Black family, _suffer_.

"Would he have been executed, if he had stood trial?" he asked at last.

Sibilig and Badluk shared a long look.

"There are fates worse than death," Ziggiz said quietly. "Azkaban itself could well be considered one of them. But while a clean blade may be considered merciful, to use Dementors for execution is heinous."

Harry began to ask more, but his foster father cut him off. "There are assuredly books on such topics in the library. Be warned that I do not personally consider them suitable for those of your young age. I would advise you to forego that knowledge until you are older."

Harry chewed on his cheek until they reached the Black vault, then tensed up when they entered it. The caution not to touch _anything_ was louder and sterner this time, and he thought he could see why.

It seemed that House Black was much more well-travelled than House Potter. Much... blacker.

Harry gazed about at the artefacts around him, each fascinatingly mouldering and loathsome in its own unique way. The closest corner of the vault held a cracked bone cabinet displaying shrunken human heads, a stack of grisly books bound in warped black leather, a rack of snakeskin robes, some sort of ceremonial altar hewn from obsidian, and a dusty, dark-wooded wardrobe which shifted its weight uneasily on four carved feet.

Shuddering slightly, he followed Ziggiz across the chamber to another plinth. This one was made of polished jasper, and held a cushion. As Harry might have guessed, the cushion was black.

"Do I do the same here?" he asked, drawing his wand from his pocket.

"No. Hold." Badluk squinted at the plinth for some time, waving his hands in various signs over it to check for any unexpected magic. Eventually, he stepped back. "Tap the cushion. But with care."

Harry did so, and after a pause of several seconds, another ring appeared, with little fuss. This time, he didn't accidentally flick it off the cushion.

"_Don't_ touch it," Sibilig cautioned.

Badluk picked up the entire cushion, and the two other goblins marched Harry outside the vault. Badluk followed, pausing on the threshold.

Ten minutes later, a pair of curse breakers had been called down from the offices, one goblin and one of the humans Gringotts employed. The experts stood just outside the vault and cast numerous diagnostic charms on the ring on its cushion just inside the door. Harry waited with his foster parents, Ziggiz and the guard, back near the mine carts. He watched with interest, but there was little to see at a distance.

At long last, just as Harry had been about to sit down and start playing with pebbles in boredom, the curse breakers stood back and beckoned them over. Apparently they could find no malicious spells on the ring, nor poison, nor hidden secrets.

Sibilig sighed and looked at her mate. "Very well. Harry, you may put it on. But you don't _have_ to."

Badluk's features slipped into a scowl for a moment. Harry stared at the ring, then looked between his guardians. "I'm still not sure I want to be Lord Black. But I suppose I couldn't be a worse lord than the one who got my parents killed. So, if you're sure it's not trapped..."

He stepped forward and picked up the ring, admiring the craftsmanship for a moment. The band was made of of simple silver and platinum strips, winding around each other like snakes.

Then he put it on.

* * *

By the end of the previous day, Dumbledore was too tired and filled with tea to face the dreadful prospect of a visit to Azkaban. So, feeling only slightly guilty, he had put it off.

Now, his footsteps rang loudly on the crumbling stone corridors. Infrequent cries echoed a counterpoint behind huge, rusty steel doors. Over the centuries, every single part of Azkaban had been replaced numerous times - such was the power of Dementors to wither and destroy. The spirits were embodiments of entropy and loss.

Inmates tended to die within years.

Dumbledore reached the central stairwell of Tower C, Block 77, and paused for breath before attempting the upward climb. Bellatrix Lestrange's cell had been on the bottommost level, closest to the Dementors, where almost no light and no fresh air would ever reach.

He could not help but contrast the woman with the withdrawn but beautiful Bellatrix Black he remembered, a Slytherin prefect with the keen mind of a Ravenclaw and loyalty of a Hufflepuff. And as for the things she had _done_, unhesitatingly, recklessly, pridefully...

She could have excelled in any of the Hogwarts houses.

Dumbledore winced, having seen what the woman had been reduced to. He shook his head, glad of the phoenix patronus preening on one shoulder and Fawkes cooing sorrowfully on the other.

His scan of the Death Eater's mind had found nothing that could be called savoury, nothing that could be called _sane_, and absolutely no trace of recollection of a plan to abduct the Boy Who Lived. She had barely even remembered the name 'Harry Potter', at first. By the end of his mental interrogation, though, she was standing, railing against her chains, raving incoherently about the infant who had vanquished her dark master.

The horrifying grey shape of a Dementor drifted up the stairwell, keeping far from the light of Dumbledore's patronus.

Should he bother with Sirius Black? The man had been imprisoned slightly longer than his cousin; he could not be any saner than her. And if anyone had known of a plot to seize Harry Potter, the dark lieutenant Bellatrix would have.

Dumbledore's phoenix warbled a snatch of music in his ear, and he sighed. The Potters' betrayers was his last lead. He really could do nothing more than follow it up.

He put his foot to the stairs, ready for the long trek up to the storm-swept surface necessary before he could travel down again to the depths of Tower A, but suddenly stumbled.

The Headmaster just barely caught himself before falling, silver and red phoenixes fluttering into the air in consternation. He clutched at his hand in shock, scarcely able to believe what had just happened.

And even before looking, he somehow _knew_ which of the invisible regency rings had abruptly vanished from his finger.

* * *

The Black ring adjusted itself smoothly to Harry's small finger, the slight chill sensation from it flowing unpleasantly across his skin.

He watched as a bulge emerged from the tangle of precious metal, splitting to reveal a stone – black opal, he absently identified – nestled in claws of silver and platinum. A slight inner light flickered into existence, sending patches of grey scuttling intermittently across the opal's surface.

Harry turned the ring slowly against the torchlight, trying to make out what was marked on the gemstone, as his foster parents crowded in behind him. After a few seconds, he realised the glittering black crystal inlay matched the Black family crest of ravens and dagger, on a background of vines.

"Ridiculous," Badluk murmured. "Black jet against black opal? Tasteless, in my opinion. Terrible design."

"Well done, Lord Black," said Ziggiz.

"It may be best to keep this a secret for now," Sibilig said. "Not Brotherhood-secret, just secret until you decide how to handle it."

Harry nodded. He had been quietly trying _Exuctiron_, _Magrakkus_ and a few goblin-signs in the hope of discerning the properties of his two new rings, but the artefacts' complexity was far beyond him. All he could make out was that they _were_ magical. Now he twisted each ring with the opposing hand, and willed them invisible.

"I have studied the process a little. Assuming the magic has accepted you as Lord, the rings act as signet rings for magical contracts," Ziggiz lectured.

"They will also allow you to pass directly through the doors of your respective vaults. Their value as social symbols is hugely beyond the art with which they are wrought. I suggest you wear them everywhere and essentially forget about them. They are no doubt already bespelled permanently clean and indestructible, but I doubt there are any particular properties beyond those I have mentioned."

A stray thought struck Harry. "Does this mean I'm Lord Potter Lord Black? Or... Lord Potter-Black? Or do I get to choose which one?"

His foster parents exchanged mildly amused looks. Ziggiz gave an elaborate shrug and began to walk towards the carts.

"Since you are both Lord Potter and Lord Black, you can call yourself whatever you damn well please," Badluk said.

"Language," the goblin's mate warned.

"I think I'll stick to Harry. So... when can I start exploring the vaults?"

* * *

Dumbledore turned away from the fireplace in the guardhouse at the summit of Azkaban. He was still a little shaken. The first dreadful inference he had made from the disappearance of the Potter ring was that Harry had died, and the Potter lordship had passed on to some formerly unknown adult heir. But after a heart-stopping few seconds, his frantic check had showed the blood wards on the Dursley house still functioning.

The idea had then struck him, halfway up the stairwell on the way to firecalling Amelia, that young Harry had been placed under an ageing potion for some nefarious purpose – perhaps to fool the same inheritance magic he had just witnessed. Perhaps the Aurors' investigation had been noticed, and someone's secret agenda had been hurriedly moved up.

Amelia hadn't thought it likely, but hadn't been able to offer a better explanation. What sort of power could create a Potter heir when there had before been only an eight-year-old boy? She had informed the Headmaster she would ask her contact in the Department of Mysteries, and then told him to alert her if the regency ring returned – which could be consistent with a potion wearing off. Finally she had asked him – well, ordered him, really – to check in on his final suspect.

After all, Black had been there that final night. Perhaps he knew something. Perhaps... perhaps he had already secretly broken out of prison.

Perhaps, Dumbledore thought, he had better go and see, before becoming too stressed by fanciful scenarios.

So he set off once more, his worry compounded by the tendrils of fear the Dementors were able to extrude past his patronus. He was heading to a cell deep in the black stone depths of the wizarding prison.

Each of Azkaban's three towers had seven levels, with thirteen prison blocks per level. The vast majority were empty, or housed inert Dementors. The prison fortress had been built by a dark wizard in an age long past, then claimed and warded by the Ministry to keep the loathsome fear-spirits they had captured from Grindelwald's broken armies.

It took a quarter of an hour for Dumbledore to reach the lowest level. He let himself into the cell with the key the Aurors had provided to him. The huge steel outer door swung noisily open, then closed firmly behind him before the small inner portal unlocked.

Sirius Black lay on a narrow pallet, chained to the wall by one ankle, watching Dumbledore enter. His eyes were sunken and slightly wild, but completely alert, not vacuous as Bellatrix had been.

When he spoke, the voice was not much more than a rasp, next to inaudible over the storm raging outside. "It's Pr'fess'r Du'bledore. Wha'r _you_ doing h're."

"Black,"the Headmaster said icily, eyes like hard blue stones.

The ragged man struggled to a sitting position, clasped his bony hands to equally bony knees, and hung his head.

Dumbledore stayed near the doorway. The chains would reach exactly halfway across the room from the far wall, but he wasn't going to take any chances.

"What have you _done_, Black? What was Voldemort's contingency plan? What did you know he would do to Harry Potter? Was it not enough to send your best friends to an early grave?"

The criminal refused to meet his eyes, but muttered angrily at the floor.

"Wh're w're you? Wh're w're you when they died? Why d'n't _you_ 'gree t' be th' secr't keeper? Why not you, Du'bledore? Wh're th' _hell_ w'r you?" Sirius Black's challenge was barely audible.

The wretch had just opened his mouth to say more, when he jerked upright. Black gave a curious coughing cry, clutching at one finger.

Dumbledore watched a expression of extreme shock appear on the haunted face, and took a cautious step forward. A band of pale, clean skin had appeared on the skin of Black's otherwise filthy finger.

The criminal began to shake. "Th' ring. Y' want'd th' ring, D'bledore? 't's no use to me h're. Ha, 'm black no m're," he added with a cackle. "They st'le that too, d'n't they? Th' d'ment'rs? Eaten it? Th', th' Black name. 's ne'r been a happ' thought b'fore, d'know why th'd wait till now t' steal it. Ha, Black no more, j'st Sirris. I c'n't be Sirris. Y'r not sirris, they'd say. Not sirris..."

His voice trailed off into hoarse, manic laughter.

A cold trickle of fear ran down Dumbledore's spine.

"Your ring disappeared? Your family _signet_ ring was summoned – you were Lord of the Black family! Who was your heir? Tell me!" Dumbledore waved a hand, and a gust of arcane wind picked up the criminal, shoving his withered, barely-clothed body upright against the wall, despite the magic-dampening chains.

Black's eyes were bulging and rolling about as he struggled and shrieked. "Th' heir. Th' heir, o' course. No... 'e's dead! Th' ring's gone! Harry! 'arry! Harry, 'e's just a baby, th'y _can't_ kill 'im, e's jus' a little lad... James 'nd Lily, th'y're dead! _Do_ s'm'thing, D'bledore! H'rry, no! I've got t' get t' 'im! 'arry! _Harry_!"

Sirius Black began screaming, cracked voice splintering further. His hands knotted into fists, body limp against the stone and tears making tracks through the grime on his cheeks.

But Dumbledore had caught his eyes when they flickered across the room, and was already diving deep into the man's mind.

* * *

Severus Snape was not a happy man.

He was not happy that he was in the mansion of Lucius Malfoy, a man he privately despised, but a man his persona required him to maintain an affability towards.

He was not happy that he was there at the behest of Albus Dumbledore. The order had come just when Snape was near a breakthrough in his private research, which Dumbledore bloody well _knew_.

He was not happy that he was playing hunt-the-Potter, a painful reminder of his oath. He hadn't expected to have to give a flying unicorn turd for the boy's welfare for another three years.

He was _reasonably_ happy that he was drinking a four-hundred-year-old wine, but it failed to offset even a single one of the other things he was not happy about.

Snape snarled inside, and began the long, convoluted process of extricating himself from Lucius' home, trying to remember all the pathetic pureblood niceties the blasted man had tutored him in over the years.

What a sodding waste of time on all counts.

* * *

Lucius escorted the younger man to the Floo, hands clasped behind his back. He was crisply polite towards his old colleague, and extremely thoughtful underneath.

Severus was not so skilled an actor that he could completely fool Lucius Malfoy. Had he not been the potions master's sponsor and friend for sixteen years?

One of Lucius' deepest contacts at the ministry had caught wind of an investigation around Harry Potter, and from this unexpected visit, which had Dumbledore's fingerprints all over it, it was fairly easy to deduce that the child had actually _gone missing_.

It had worried Lucius, to hear a rumour from only a single source, and then to be unable to pick up the whole story. Lord Malfoy was not as close to the Minister, Millicent Bagnold, as he might like. He was already moving useful people into government positions wherever he could gain a political toehold, but the highest offices were – currently – unassailable.

The British Ironbelly, they called her. She was ...inconvenient.

That he had come close to missing something as important as _this_, though – miss it _completely_, suggested he needed to speed up the expansion of his network.

Lucius watched the green flames blaze and return to bare coals, already resolving to make his own inquiries about the Boy Who Lived.

* * *

The remainder of the week saw Harry exploring his new vaults in the afternoons, always with a clerk and a guard at his side. Sometimes Badluk or Sibilig had time to spare, and pitched in. Occasionally one of the other managers in his huge extended family stopped in.

According to his genealogy book, the Potters and Blacks were Ancient And Most Noble Houses. The 'Noble' part came from wealth, land holdings, and the fact that a male pureblooded heir had inherited for seven generations. The 'Ancient' part came from several hundred years of existence.

From what Harry could see, the remaining Black Family fortunes amounted to ...almost nothing. The Black vault didn't even have as much money or jewellery as his own birth parents'. Presumably the Blacks' remaining wealth was tied up in holding enough land to stay Noble.

On the other hand, some of the possessions in the vault might be worth some sum, if the nasty enchantments on some of them could be removed. Harry had sworn not to touch anything at all, even coins or documents, even with gloves on, without getting it cleared by a curse-breaker first. Whenever there wasn't one available to help him, he worked in the House Potter vault instead.

The goblins had been... fairly impassive about his newfound wealth, particularly the art objects, although Badluk tended to make little jibes that Harry knew weren't meant maliciously. Of course, the Brothers would have known about his inheritance from the start. They knew, and Harry knew they knew, that he would use it wisely. The money could help him, which would help _them_. Harry had learned his basic lessons in fiscal prudence properly, even if his numeracy was decidedly below his literacy.

The fact that Harry was inheriting things from the dead was fundamentally against goblin ideals, of course, and it made him feel terribly awkward. Wealth was to be redistributed, for the good of all, according to who could produce the greatest works with it. He had asked if he could place the contents of his vaults in the great gold-stores, warehouses and reliquaries of the goblin nation, but a hastily-convened Council of Counters had decided against it. Gringotts itself, where his wealth was held, was neutral ground. He would need to act as a wizard, and that entailed banking with goblins. And the money was more accessible there, given that it would only be spent aboveground.

He was similarly uncomfortable inheriting things from his parents' betrayer, but took a pragmatic approach to it, just as he had with the lordship. He had already suffered his parents' murders – why not see some small justice exacted, in the form of reparations? And if Black ever walked free, as he now knew some Death Eaters had...

Harry, thinking all this, shivered involuntarily. Hearing an aggrieved cough, he forced his mind back to the ancient pottery urn in front of him. The craftsmanship was extremely poor, but even if it turned out to be empty, the pot's very age would make it valuable. The neck was sealed up with beeswax, and embedded in that wax was a curse – once dangerous, but now weakened by the passage of centuries.

Harry gripped the neck of the urn carefully with long silver pliers, while dipping a heated steel skewer obliquely into the opening. Blaglung the Fortunate, a master of the curse-breaking field, was crouched nearby, watching with a very close eye.

The wax melted away from the skewer, and a moment later, something green and wispy emerged from the urn, unravelling into the air. Harry carefully withdrew the metal.

The small crucible beside them blazed white for a moment, showing the curse had successfully been captured and dissipated, and Harry placed the skewer back inside the burning, rune-encircled pot. Then he sat back on his heels, consciously relaxed his shoulders, wiped the sweat from his face, and cleaned his glasses on his sleeve. He smiled, hearing Blaglung mutter an appraisal of a job adequately performed.

Harry was astounded at how many secrets he had learned in just the first few days after becoming a Brother. The goblin-oath he'd sworn was better than wizarding oaths, which could kill you if you broke them – even inadvertently, unknowingly, or reluctantly. The goblin-oath stopped a person revealing secrets _entirely_, unless it was fully premeditated. Even then, a person might only manage the most circumspect of answers before their magical core collapsed and they died.

Because of that powerful safeguard, Harry was learning many of the things which would let him train as a Gringotts worker – learning the right way to touch the vault doors to open them, how to intimidate an imp-lock or outsmart a dwarf-bolt, how to navigate the Unfathomable Maze if he needed to travel without using the carts, during a lockdown or tunnel accident.

He was learning more dangerous things, too. And not all of them within the Black vault, surrounded by purple candles and scarred curse breakers.

He learned from his foster father the innermost secrets of investment and interest, where wizards' money could be made to wander in between vault visits.

Badluk also showed him how Galleons were protected from forgery. The long half-life of magical particles meant conjured gold – infinite in supply, even if extremely difficult to make permanent – could be easily distinguished from normal gold. Gringotts Galleons used exactly 2% real gold, 50% conjured gold, 23% real silver, 23% conjured silver, and 2% conjured platinum. Each coin carried a permanent magical signature which marked the goblin who made it, and a numeric code that matched an apparently random, but actually elaborate, nigh-unbreakable pattern. Subtle spells on the money caused some extremely nasty things to happen to those poor souls who dared try to duplicate it.

One of the bigger secrets Harry discovered was the vast hoard of gold and other metals in the depths of Underfoot, and similar hoards in goblin cities all over the world. Without those hoards, the price of gold would be noticeably lower. As it was, the value of the precious metals in a Galleon was very slightly _higher_ than the current face value of a Galleon. That was why the money was enchanted to be unmeltable... as well as indestructible, unVanishable and protected from modification or disenchantment.

And then... then Sibilig had shown him the _other_ things, in the deeper and less-travelled places of the stalagmite city. Underfoot was filled with carefree people, but these places were patrolled by permanently scowling guards, dressed in heavier armour than those in the bank above. Inside these caverns were huge empty shipyards and steel foundries, dragon breeding grounds and troll enclaves, ranks of siege weapons and vast stockpiles of weapons and armour.

Harry had walked these stranger streets in his foster mother's shadow, keeping well away from the huge blast doors and thick bars in many places.

He marvelled at the stonework and intricate wards of the chokepoints. He stared at the armoured mole titan, bound to pillars the size of houses in chains of bright steel. He solemnly examined the water-powered drop hammers, which stood ready for the mass production of ammunition – in case there was ever a time when _quantity_ somehow became more important to the Brothers than _quality_.

Untouched by war for centuries, the warehouses were fuller than they had ever been. Harry had been taught that the last goblin rebellion had ended in 1803, at a huge cost on both sides. The books said that the wizards had only won through the intervention of foreign nations, primarily France and the Netherlands.

Fortunately, a complex peace agreement had been brokered in 1865, returning Gringotts to goblin autonomy, and the treaty had held.

Harry couldn't help but feel that any future uprisings could be much more successful than those of centuries ago.

* * *

Dumbledore jerked back from Sirius Black's mind, his own head reeling. Legilimency on a long-term Azkaban inmate was never pleasant, but Black was filled with an emotional turmoil that Dumbledore could barely begin to grip. There was desperation, agony, and ..._love_? Black had truly not expected that Harry would go missing, but there was much more to it than that. There was an underlying need to _know_ that the child was alive.

Dumbledore had felt _remorse_ lurking in there, he knew it, amidst flickering images of the man cradling young Harry Potter in the ruins of his parents' home. It wasn't the simple remorse Dumbledore had dared to hope any of Voldemort's chosen could feel. It was, almost without a doubt, remorse at having _failed_ the Potters.

"He's not dead," the Headmaster gasped, letting Black slide down the wall into a heap, and feeling like collapsing himself. "He's not dead."

Dumbledore's head was filled with a despair that hadn't been present in Bellatrix's mind. He wasn't sure why he was reassuring Black, who was still yelling. But he did know that there was something deeply, deeply wrong here. "Harry's not dead," he repeated. "He's gone missing. Somebody's taken him, we don't know who or how. I thought- I thought-"

Black was still shrieking, apparently without rhyme or reason. Fawkes was screaming too, inexplicably, and Dumbledore's patronus was flickering and fading.

Unable to bear another moment, the Wizard of the Light retreated blindly through the doors, which locked themselves behind him, and staggered down the stone halls, the screams of the imprisoned all around him rising to join the chorus in his mind.

Seven years ago, after that fateful night of the Potters' betrayal, the path of the greater good had never been clearer to Albus Dumbledore. Lucius Malfoy had bought his way clear of custody the very next day, along with a full _third_ of the other Death Eaters captured in the aftermath of the Dark Lord's defeat. Dumbledore had known that Black, brought in scant hours afterwards, could have done the same. Even if the man was laughing and shrieking hysterically when the Aurors brought him in, even if the Black fortunes had been diminished with time, it was still a distinct probability. The Lord of an Ancient and Most Noble House could do almost anything he pleased, in those times. He could certainly have pleaded Imperius. And then Black would have got his hands on an infant Harry Potter.

So Dumbledore had ...reacted.

A little tweaking, a word in Crouch's zealous ear, a document which Bagnold had deliberately signed without reading, and the possibility of a trial had simply gone away. Black had been shipped off to rot in the lowest parts of Azkaban. If anything, he had been a poster child for the idea that the Ministry was bringing Voldemort's most dastardly followers to justice.

Albus Dumbledore stumbled down the deteriorating stone corridor, feeling sick to his stomach.

* * *

Thirteen goblins sat around a polished stone table in the Gringotts boardroom. The Ministry had made a quiet inquiry about Harry Potter, and Gringotts had responded, truthfully, that his parents' account still stood untouched. Then, within days, rumours about the Boy Who Lived had started spreading. Whatever was going on in the Ministry had first escaped to certain privileged ears, then trickled down to the general public.

Most of the Council believed it would be best to come straight out and tell the Ministry where he was, before the news truly broke and a witch-hunt began for "Harry Potter's abductors". Being proactive would give them an edge. The Ministry would negotiate to prevent the announcement going public before they were ready. Any government wanted time to spin things in their own favour, and if there was one thing the goblins could do well, it was negotiation.

Others, though, wanted to let the rumours flare and die first, wait a few months or years, then invite various interested factions to Gringotts to meet Harry. That would let them make any precautions they thought necessary, and make contingency plans for whatever level of public outcry was provoked.

The debate continued long into the evening and then into the night, and Sibilig excused herself to be at home to make sure the subject of their discussion went to bed.

Eventually, Flattaks of the Currency Trade Department made a suggestion. She knew of a good intermediary, a person who could keep secrets, a person who could make recommendations based on their sense of the collective consciousness of the wizarding world. Her second cousin would be perfect for the part.

The managers exchanged looks, then, slowly, nods. "Yes," somebody said at last.

"Yes," said King Gurmsalt, and began to write a letter.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ Thanks, everyone, for reading and reviewing! Reviews are really helpful, they let me fix the leaks in the plot-pipes and help me decide on the way things should go.

→ In response to some concerns:

→ I'm trying not to make Harry _too_ mature for his age, but goblin Nurture may be overcoming human Nature.

→ I'm not a Ron-basher, but in JKR's books his most obvious traits are jealousy, laziness, opposition to learning, and lack of empathy bordering on selfishness. Maybe it's just me, but these seem to make him a better stooge than hero. I doubt he'd get on well with goblin-raised-Harry.

→ People ask about 'pairings'. I'm not sure I'll even write any. I'm _definitely_ not opening that particular basket of beetles until he's in his teens. If I do, I'll try to make it realistic.

→ I personally can't stand fics where Harry befriends all goblins, everywhere, by somehow being the first wizard in a thousand years of goblin banking to say "thank you" to a goblin. This is a ridiculous premise, given that (a) muggleborns exist, and wouldn't know to act inhumanly to goblins, and (b) the British have a culture of politeness. Being on their good side by actually growing up goblin seems much more realistic, especially when their decision to take Harry in was a calculated choice.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 8**

* * *

"I assume nothing came of it, Albus?"

Dumbledore shut the door quietly and brushed his hands absently down his robes, collecting himself. "Amelia, I fear a dreadful mistake has been made."

Madam Bones shoved a stack of folders aside and looked at him, trying not to glare. She was growing more exasperated by the hour with the meddling Chief Warlock. Sometimes Amelia wondered if people ever looked past Dumbledore's old-man-charm and mildly intimidating aura, to see the real man. Lately she had found herself wondering if the rumours were true, and he really _was_ going senile.

"What is it this time, Dumbledore? I'd have my hands full even without this blasted Harry Potter business, what with the recent Yorkshire naga sightings, and the latest on the shillelagh situation in North Ireland."

She waited, scowl deepening as the old man tiredly squeezed his nose bridge, concern bare on his face. "I believe it is possible – no, I think it _very probable_ that Sirius Black is innocent," he said at last.

Bones looked briefly surprised, and then shuddered as she assimilated this news. "You learned something important from him that didn't come out during his trial?"

Dumbledore winced slightly, and began the story.

* * *

"Ah-ha," said Harry quietly, proudly observing the pattern of light in front of him.

He heard Bidpruk the filigree master pace over and stand behind his stool, waiting.

Harry put down the jeweller's glass carefully and extracted his new spectacles from the vice, putting them on as he turned to face the instructor.

"There are four enchantments placed upon the glasses. The crafter of the _grisherur_ also carved two more rune-knots but left them empty, so two more spells can be placed upon them in the future. The first of the four enchantments is dark-sight," Harry said confidently. Bidpruk, face locked in his perpetual snarl, made a _go-on_ motion.

"I can tell by the lustre of the weave. One separate spell is linked to each of the three rune-knots on this side. There is enough interference between the glyphs for them to give off different shines where they interact. The shimmer isn't steady enough to be heat detection, and the sigil is far too responsive to goblin-sign to be a charm for seeing through invisibility. The enchantments on either side are much more passive than this one. That leaves dark-sight."

"Yes," said Bidpruk shortly. "And how is it activated?"

"I, um, hadn't got that far – but," Harry hurriedly continued as the jeweller's sour look deepened, "If it's the goblin-charm which Old Mother Blagwed and some of the other elders with failing sight use, then... judging by the complexity of the enchantment, the activation should just be the first two gestures of the charm itself."

"Show me."

Harry did so, and hissed between his teeth as the lamps of the workshop suddenly became too bright to bear. He tore off his glasses and blinked rapidly. "_Rocks fall_," he swore.

Bidpruk shook his head sharply. "Little fool. The charm responds with greater or lesser intensity depending on how many of the handsigns you make. Only the first motion is necessary for a low level of dark-sight. Learn from this mistake."

Harry waved his fingers slightly in the opposite direction, and tried the glasses again. Now the lamps appeared bright, but not painfully so, and he could see clearly into every corner of the tidy workshop.

Bidpruk nodded at him, scowling deeply. "Very well. Now you will do as well in the tunnels as a goblin by blood. Alert me when you have discovered the other three charms, Harry Potter. In time, perhaps you will become adept enough that I will be willing to help you enchant the two remaining rune-knots."

Harry smiled, but the goblin's face remained sour.

"And do _not_ think that you can avoid your cold-joining practise to work on them, boy, or your jewellery will remain sub-par forever. Understand?"

Harry nodded meekly at the warning, but was still smiling to himself as he turned back to the bench.

* * *

Remus, walking briskly between the hedgerows, flared his nostrils. He detected nothing but traces of mud, damp bird and old apples, trickling in with the ever-present smell of the mist. This was the last street. No scent in the country lanes or hint of gossip in the local pub suggested Harry Potter had recently been near the sleepy village of Mould-on-the-Wold.

_Find Harry Potter, find James' son_, he chanted in his head, slightly manic. The days after the full moon always left him feeling strangely jumpy, as if he had drank one cup of Sylph Blend coffee too many. Today was worse than usual, though.

Remus came to a halt as the cobblestones gave way to a muddy path, and he peered around the fog one last time. Then he pictured the tiny town square of the magical quarter in Dirk's Common, and spun on his heel, disappearing with a sharp _crack_.

* * *

"You want to make me a full Brother of the Nation," Filius Flitwick said in Gobbledegook, staring at the Bank Director across from him.

The diminutive professor had received a letter that morning from Gringotts on behalf of the Brotherhood. Being a half-goblin himself, he knew that actually meant: a letter from the Brotherhood. It was only ever politically useful to pretend the two entities were separate. So he had paused only to buckle on his best blue boots before hurrying out from his holiday cottage.

"Yes," said Gurmsalt.

"Something which, to the best of my not-insubstantial knowledge, has never been done for anyone not of full goblin birth," Flitwick added, trying to get a feel for the old goblin's motives.

King Gurmsalt the Wary folded his hands and ignored this last remark. "You have shown your worth several time in the past. Flattaks has spoken for your character and Bogripple's research did not turn up any, as we say, _bad welds_ in your personal history. And now we have a situation where your expertise would be very useful. We would like you to visit Underfoot to provide it."

The Ravenclaw blinked twice, immediately hooked by the thought of being granted access to the fabled City of Stalagmites. "Very well," he said. "What do I need to do?"

"There is a test..."

* * *

Flitwick inclined his head gracefully as the goblins removed their masks and applauded.

Somewhere in the labyrinthine caves behind him lay a fully-grown rock worm cut to ribbons by serrated silver discs, and a well dug by his own hand, and three broken metal doors.

Needless to say, nobody in living memory had completed the threefold trial of _gadammeruk_ as quickly as the duelling champion with a charms mastery and six decades of experience.

Flitwick walked with the group into Underfoot, where his eyes drank in the unbelievably distant ceiling of the main cavern, the hundreds of cave buildings and stone structures, the lamps filled with glow-worms and parks dripping with phosphorescent fungi.

His second cousin, Flattaks, took her leave, and soon only Gurmsalt and a goblin named Badluk accompanied him as they ambled towards a dwelling on the outskirts of the city.

Filius was feeling both excessive excitement and tremendous trepidation. He was walking through the stronghold of the Brotherhood, seeing things no wizard had seen before. But... _why_, exactly, was he here?

There was only one thing he could think of which could spur the goblins to bring in a sympathetic outsider like himself for advice, and that was imminent war. But what could have brought the old goblin-wizard hostilities to the surface again? How had he caught no word of it? Had some anti-goblin legislation secretly been brought before the Wizengamot?

Badluk opened the stone door before them. Someone was seated with a book in the room beyond, and stood up quickly.

"Hello," said the spectacled boy. He was dressed in soft leather leggings and a sturdy linen shirt. There was a very distinctive lightning bolt scar visible under close-cropped hair.

Flitwick gave a squeak of surprise and fell off the doorstep.

* * *

The most prehistoric of Aurors in the office exchanged nervous glances with the greenest of trainees, then made themselves busy as the magically-muffled yelling from the boss's office gave way to an ominous silence.

Inside, the troubling matter of Harry Potter was forgotten for a moment while an old miscarriage of justice was addressed.

"I'm afraid we fudged a great deal of paperwork," Dumbledore was saying, knotting his gnarled fingers in the depths of his beard. "I expect Minister Bagnold will not be happy if that is uncovered, especially given that she was complicit in it."

"She can't just ignore both the Chief Warlock and the Head of the DLME," Madam Bones said. "Most likely she'll try to make _you_ carry the can for it."

Dumbledore looked grave. "Do try to _think_, Amelia. I do not believe that will be her first choice of response. Elections are in two years, after all, and she knows that she would not escape the débâcle unmarred. She might even be hounded from office immediately. No, I believe the easiest way would be for her to have Black suffer an 'unfortunate accident' on the way back to the DMLE cells."

"Oh. Yes, that could be the case. Bagnold is..."

"Career-oriented?"

Madam Bones flicked her wand, sending an additional privacy charm at the door. "Utterly ruthless and _ridiculously_ power hungry, just like every Minister before her," she said grimly. "Unfortunately, transit to and from Azkaban is outside my direct authority - although I could lean on the Auror Office, through Scrimgeour."

She paused, and tapped her wand on the table thoughtfully. "In fact, Azkaban is _meant_ to be out of the Minister's direct jurisdiction, too. How exactly did the three of you bypass the Wizengamot to get Black imprisoned in the first place?"

Half an hour later, she stared tiredly into her coffee mug. It was a mess, it really was. Dumbledore, in his capacity as Chief Warlock, had switched the usual Wizengamot arraignment papers for a bizarre waiver which Barty Crouch had come up with. Crouch had used his clout as then-Head of the DMLE to get the chief Auror to sign off on it. Then, while Dumbledore stonewalled the retraction of Bagnold's special wartime powers in the Wizengamot, the completely invented form had been delivered to the Minister's office for her to approve. It had been the last use of those wartime measures; the motion had carried scant minutes later.

Not a word had been spoken, apparently, between Crouch and Bagnold, which would give her plausible deniability if she were to argue that she'd never read the paperwork properly. Dumbledore, on the other hand, would crash and burn like a nine-broomstick pile-up.

Most Ministers of Magic in Britain's history would have happily signed off on even a Kiss without trial – although they might have stayed their arm in this particular case, given that it was the scion of a Noble and Most Ancient House in the cells.

But it was Dumbledore, in the throes of mercy, who had not sought execution. He had only pushed matters as he had because of his certainty that the Potters would have specified Black as a guardian to Harry Potter. An Imperius defence and a sack full of gold would have got him _custody of the Boy Who Lived_.

Albus had hinted before leaving that control of the Boy Who Lived was a much bigger deal than just political power. That was disquieting, but nothing she had the patience to follow up on now.

Amelia was having a hard time suppressing her disgust with the old wizard, but she had to admit to herself that, if she had been in his position, and knowing that Black was guilty as sin, she might have done the same thing.

At least he had the ba- the courage to do what was right. It would have been no effort at all for Dumbledore to simply shrug and announce that neither Black nor Lestrange had anything to do with the disappearance of Harry Potter.

* * *

Dumbledore, for his part, was passing through the Wand Registry Office on the way to see if a _Priori Incantatem_ had been cast on Black's wand upon his arrest, when the word 'Potter' drifted into his ear. He stopped, and walked slowly behind the row of cubicles.

"-registered just three days ago, yeah, iffen I remember."

"Ollivanders', then?"

"O' course. The bleedin' Boy Who Lived wouldn't want some swishy foreign wand, would 'e?"

"So, he's Hogwarts age? That can't be right."

"Nah, that's the weird thing. He's only eight, accordin' to the records. Prob'ly they're givin' 'im some special trainin', bein' who he is, so got 'im a wand early. Hey, is that..."

Dumbledore stepped into the sight of the two young men, annoyed at himself. He should have thought to check all the Ministry departments. Given the secret nature of the investigation, information about Harry Potter wouldn't be automatically passed on to the Aurors.

"Ah, Miles," the Headmaster smiled. "And Joshua Jacobson, I believe? Discussing Harry Potter's recent wand purchase?"

"Er, yeah, Professor," said one of the young men working in the office, and glanced shrewdly at the elderly professor. "You're here to check he's not been doin' anything untoward with it, then?"

"Oh, I'm just passing through. Mr Potter has my full confidence," Dumbledore smiled. "I'm sure I would have heard if the Trace had shown him performing underage magic illegally."

Both men shook their heads. "Not that I've 'eard, sir," said Miles. "An' the Improper Use of Magic Office're meant to give us the carbon copies fer each wand's file iffen there's an incident."

"Capital. Carry on then, gentlemen," Dumbledore said, and spun on his heel, heading briskly off towards the atrium.

_Why_ would Harry Potter be bought a wand? Now, if nothing had been detected from the wand in question, then either it was not being used, or it was being used close enough to adult wizards to confuse the Trace. Or it could be somewhere out of British sovereignty, where the Trace didn't extend – but that hardly seemed likely. _Surely_ somebody would have noticed the Boy Who Lived leaving the country.

His next stop, then, had to be Ollivander's.

* * *

"Hello," Harry said, standing shyly by the doorframe, Prettyroot wrapped around his neck. He put _A History Of Ironmongery_ carefully on the shelf above the coat rack, and stood with his hands clasped behind his back.

The small, elderly wizard in front of him, after recovering from falling off the doorstep, was boggling in surprise. He felt like boggling back. Badluk and Sibilig had told him the Council was going to try to bring a half-goblin into their confidence, but Harry really hadn't expected to met him so quickly.

"Filius, this is Harry Potter," Badluk said, waving a hand airily. "Harry, this is Professor Filius Flitwick the Useful. He is a Brother amongst Brothers."

Harry's foster father turned to Flitwick. "Do come in, Filius. Our dwelling is your dwelling."

The Charms professor shook Harry's hand in a daze, then squeaked, "Forgive me, but what is _Harry Potter_ doing in _Underfoot_?"

"I will pour you a cup of _bakh_," Badluk said, closing the door behind Gurmsalt, "And tell you."

When the four of them were gathered around the kitchen table, Harry stared across at Filius Flitwick with open curiosity, amused that he was receiving an equally curious stare back.

Harry listened with half an ear as his foster father told the story of his adoption by the Brothers, and wondered exactly how the diminutive man had earned the _glaumernom_ 'the Useful'.

He was also worried about how to address the visitor. Goblin custom called for recently-introduced elders to be called by their name, title and secret name if in private. But he wasn't sure if Flitwick qualified as an elder, and visitors in your own home could be called by just their name.

Of course, wizards had _two_ names - most of the goblins called him 'Harry' or 'Harry Potter' interchangeably, if they were used to dealing with wizards, or ran 'Harrypotter' together as one name if they weren't. ...But then, Gringotts policy was to not call wizards by name at all, if possible.

"I like your snake, Harry," the tiny wizard said in his squeaky voice, smiling across at him. "A rock worm, yes? Is it a pet?"

"Yes, sir, she-"

"Please, call me Filius, Harry."

Well, that settled that.

"Yes, she is, Filius. We've know each other for ages. Her real name's _Sssthsnnss_, but most people can't pronounce that, so we just call her Prettyroot, and she... doesn't mind..."

His eyes flickered to Badluk when the goblin sighed theatrically. "Harry is a Parasolmouth," his foster father said, drawing out the last word as he rolled his eyes across at Harry.

Harry had remembered with some embarrassment that he shouldn't advertise his knowledge of Parseltongue. He looked sheepishly at Badluk for a moment before scowling as his ears caught up. "You said 'Parasolmouth' deliberately, didn't you?"

He turned back to Flitwick, who seemed vaguely uncomfortable. "I'm a _Parsel_mouth, actually. I talk to snakes and some other reptiles, _not_ umbrellas. Badluk is just jealous that he doesn't have a pet willing to sneak him food from the kitchen at night, yes?"

Flitwick smiled, then looked curious. "Other reptiles, too? Really?"

Harry grinned toothily across the table. "Only a few. I talk to any creature I find in the tunnels, and I try to test a few more in that Eeylops store on Diagon Alley whenever I get to go out and nobody is looking. It seems I can talk to slow-worms, and basically any type of true snake. Geckos are hard to understand, and the chameleons _seemed_ interested in what I was saying but never replied. I wasn't sure if the monitor lizard didn't understand me, or if it was just sleepy. The Giant Galliwasp in the petshop was _very_ talkative but I only understood about one word in three, he had such a strong accent."

Harry stopped to tell Prettyroot what he was talking about, and she whispered a reminder to him. "Oh, yes. I definitely _can't_ talk to cave crocodiles or tunnel turtles, or any of the tortoises they had in Eeylops. The iguana ignored me. I haven't tried talking to dragons or wyverns or hydras but there's a few history books which agree that Parseltongue doesn't work on them. I've found two books with chapters on Parselmouths and one says we can talk to amphisbaena, and one says we can't, so I'm hoping to test that."

Harry nodded in satisfaction with his own account and sat back.

"Fascinating," Flitwick chirped, peering at him and looking genuinely pleased at this revelation. "I don't pretend to know a lot about the ability, but it's interesting to hear that it doesn't only cover true serpents. What group do rock worms fall under, do you know?"

"They're not really related to any non-magical animals," Harry said, tickling Prettyroot's spine as she crawled onto the table. "They're descended from the ancient wyrms, just like water wyrms, dragons and wyverns. The books show that water wyrms look really similar to rock worms, so maybe they speak Parseltongue too. They're meant to be really rare, though."

"Well, I hope you'll keep me updated on your research," Flitwick smiled.

The eight-year-old nodded uncertainly. "If I can."

Badluk placed a bowl of zesty _glakk_ roots on the kitchen table. "Filius is a teacher at Hogwarts, Harry. You will probably see him a lot."

"Ah, you are going to attend Hogwarts, then," Flitwick said. "I admit I was concerned, when I first saw you, that you would not be returning to the wizarding world..."

Harry could tell there was a hidden question there, but the conversation was in English, and he wasn't as well-versed in its subtleties as he was Gobbledegook.

"It would be considered a major affront if he did not," Gurmsalt said, toying with a half-eaten root.

Flitwick nodded slightly, then turned back to Harry. "I teach Charms, and I'm responsible for Ravenclaw House, the choir and the Gobstones Club at Hogwarts. That last one's a lot of fun, if messy."

Harry had seen Hogwarts Houses mentioned in the wizarding genealogy book he had pored over, but hadn't a clue what a gobstone was. A _goblin_stone was the eye-wateringly recursive keystone used in the most expensive goblin wards, the ones that didn't follow normal geometry... but it didn't sound like it was related, from context.

"I'd imagine you have a lot of questions, perhaps about the wider world as well as Hogwarts," the tiny professor prompted.

"Yes, sir – er, Filius. Hundreds."

"Excellent!" Filius squeaked.

"Actually, I already have quite a few books talking about history and politics from wizard and goblin perspectives, and I've started reading the easier books on wizard magic. But they don't touch on-" Harry fumbled for the word- "deeper things. How do things work? Why do things fall, and where does magic come from, and why is there one sun, and is it magic that makes it warmer deeper down in the earth, and why do people look like their parents? My learning has been more, er, practical in Underfoot."

He glanced at Badluk, hoping his foster father knew he wasn't trying to disparage a goblin education. But the slight grimace on the manager's lips was one Harry recognised as wry amusement. Of course, he was probably reflecting that Harry had a marked tendency to bring up rather _different_ questions to those young goblins asked.

"Does Hogwarts teach things like that?" Harry continued.

Flitwick blinked. "Underlying theories are emphasised in _some_ classes, such as transfiguration and arithmancy, and you will certainly learn about the sun in Astronomy, but it really sounds like what you need is a book of natural philosophy, such as Hendrick the Half-Damned wrote... or even a primer on muggle science."

"Science." Harry frowned. "I've heard the word, but not a good translation of it in Gobbledegook. It means something like ...rigorous exploration, right? Something closer to the principles of economics than to artistry, but also sort of like, well, debating, or philosophy?"

Flitwick paused, obviously deciding how to answer. "Wizards sometimes call it muggle magic, but that's not really right. I'm no expert, but I would say that science is the tool the muggles use to examine the functioning of the world, just as we use arithmantic principles to examine the functioning of a spell. The things that muggles learn about the world helps them make Technology, which really _is_ muggle magic."

Badluk, who had been listening to the conversation with undisguised amusement, said, "We can arrange to have some human muggle books bought through Gringotts. I do not imagine that there is a great selection of them in the Underfoot library."

"No," agreed Harry.

"No. There is not." Gurmsalt shook his head. "Our kind argued long against the Statute of Secrecy, but that was more for business interests than the mutual exchange of ideas. At the time, the magical races were far more learned in every area one might be interested in. That the human muggles have built new frontiers of knowledge after our societies separated is an unforeseen event."

Flitwick frowned briefly. "I didn't know that."

"It is hardly a secret." Gurmsalt's eyes glittered. "But it is not surprising that you do not... if the conceits of the buffoons at the Liaison Office are representative of the history taught by wizards."

Harry heard Filius mutter something like "bins", then take out a notebook and a length of polished wood which Harry recognised.

The half-goblin spoke as he jotted something down with the wand, words appearing neatly as the tip moved across the page. "I should be able to find a few relevant books to lend you, Harry. I mentioned Hendrick's tome, but it might be a bit ...advanced. Now, the ancient Greek sorcerers, in particular, established a lot of our ideas about the world. Then there is some excellent work by the Swiss gnomes on the basic functioning of magic... perhaps even an introductory Alchemy text could be useful, as long as I can find one where you won't drown in the jargon..."

The two adult goblins were scowling at the wand. Harry looked carefully from it to them, trying to judge their mood. "I got a wand for my birthday," he volunteered carefully.

The tiny professor looked up, eyes alight. He clearly knew where Harry was going with that. "Ah, excellent. And you're keen to try wizard magic, hmmm?"

Harry nodded eagerly. "I have Adalbert Waffling's _Magical Theory_, and I've tried the exercises from it, but I really don't know where to begin with spells. From what I can tell, they're very different from goblin-charms. Even wizarding enchantment isn't at all like the way we forge magic into metal."

Flitwick's look of pleasant surprise, which had appeared at the mention of Waffling's book, grew deeper. "You've learned goblin spells? Wonderful! I hope you'll teach _me_ some, if the Brotherhood permits it."

Harry blinked at him in confusion, and the two managers chorused, "You are a Brother amongst Brothers."

Flitwick shook his head in bemusement. "I may never get used to that," he said solemnly in his high-pitched voice. "Well, we are not required to abide by the Ministry under-age magic laws here, in the depths of the enclave. Do you have your wand here, Harry?"

Harry took it out. He tried not smile at the fact that Badluk's scowl at the sight of _this_ wand was much less pronounced.

"Ah, good. Now, the key to wand magic lies in the movement, pronunciation and focus. We'll start with the least demanding spell I know, the Whistle Charm. It just makes a single shrill note. Hold your wand like this. The incantation is simply _Barba_, but you have to roll the 'r'..."

Half an hour later Harry was sitting on his bed, Prettyroot coiled sleepily in his lap. He was wiggling his wand and muttering, still trying to cast the spell. Flitwick had assured him he had grasped the basic form of the charm, and now just needed to learn to direct his magic firmly.

It really was _very_ unlike goblin-charms, which drew on ambient magic when they were cast and usually grew stronger over a few hours before fading away. Having to use his own magical core and then direct that through a wand, rather than his fingers, was quite taxing. In fact, Harry was beginning to feel that knowing goblin magic might actually be making it harder for him to learn wizard magic.

...Or maybe he was simply being unreasonable to expect progress after so short a time.

He had left to keep practising in the quiet of his room when the adults had started talking about Council matters. Amongst those matters was the question of what the Brotherhood was going to tell the Ministry of Magic about him, Harry. Of course, he was glad that with the passing of his threefold test, he was trusted to listen to such things if he wanted to. But he knew that more experienced heads than his were considering matters, and they'd ask for his input if they wanted it.

Besides, magic was _so much_ more interesting.

* * *

"Ah, Albus. Twelve inches, weeping willow and nundu tongue, wasn't it? Well, once upon a time, anyway – a strange combination, very strange indeed, but I understand that you did some unquestionably brilliant things with it. I trust your _new_ wand is serving you well, though?"

Dumbledore had forgotten just how trying it was to visit Ollivander.

"Indeed it is, thank you. I hope I find you in good health, Roderick?"

The silver-eyed man moved quietly forward out of the gloom of the small shop. "Yes, actually, and thank you, Albus." He paused. "You are here about young Harry Potter."

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes slightly. "I am," he admitted. "Have rumours reached the streets already?"

Ollivander shrugged a negligent shoulder, and turned to dust off a shelf. "Barely. I have heard only a whisper here, seen a stray thought there. Has he really gone missing?"

Albus hesitated, then sat down on the spindly chair near the front of the shop and cast a privacy charm. "I'm afraid he has. There is a high-level Auror investigation under way. He was supposed to have been placed with his relatives."

"There is always a gap between that which is supposed to happen and that what does. Sometimes the gap is unbridgeable, sometimes it is very narrow indeed. But always, we find a gap."

The Headmaster ignored this. He was fairly sure he was having his own words quoted back at him, anyway. "Could you tell me what happened when he came to buy a wand, Roderick?"

Ollivander dusted another shelf. "He came disguised, guarded by Gringotts goblins, along with Boris Scintillion – alder wand, the best you can have for wards – and had a very strong result from the brother wand to the Dark Lord's, which he purchased." The wandmaker smiled thinly. "He _also_ complimented me on my Invisible Runes."

Dumbledore took in these revelations. "Invisible Runes?" he asked at last.

"Just one of the secrets of the wand-carver's trade. They act as – well, I doubt you have the background knowledge to understand it." Ollivander gave a prim little smile. "It would be a good metaphor, although entirely inaccurate in almost every way, to say that they act as a key, _unlocking_ the magic used in every spell. Every wizard's wand has them, and never before has a customer in my shop seen them. I can only assume that Mr Scintillion has made a special study of them, in his professional capacity, and shared it with Mr Potter."

Dumbledore stood up, mind beginning to race. The news about the wand was troubling, in more ways than one, but now at least they had a name to go on. Scintillion, he recalled, was a curse-breaker and former ward expert, a long-term contractor for Gringotts. Did the _goblin nation_ have Harry? It was almost unthinkable, and yet...

He frowned deeply and made his departure. No, there was a much more likely option. The goblin-oath would prevent Scintillion from speaking about anything done on Gringotts business. Possibly someone – someone who didn't wish to show their own face – had simply contracted Gringotts to provide security for Harry Potter's trip to Diagon Alley.

On the other hand, it took powerful magic to deflect Ministry-grade tracking charms and post owls, as was currently happening. The goblins protected their meeting rooms with magic like that. Blood wards could do it, too, to some extent, and would have done at the Dursleys' house. What else could it be? Albus was fairly sure that he was one of perhaps a dozen wizards in the world who not only knew of the Fidelius charm, but could cast it.

It could be, he reflected uneasily, that he would have to wait on the Founders' legacy to resolve his questions. The magic they had left to Hogwarts would be used to address letters to every school age witch and wizard in Britain, and in three years' time, Harry would surely number amongst them.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ Things have been pretty hectic at my university, hence the long time between updates. I tend to write huge swathes of notes on what will happen in much later chapters, so hopefully writing will get faster and faster as I have a more and more detailed framework for each new chapter. On the other hand, it means I get 'story bloat'.

→ A note on inheritance. According to _film_ canon, both of Sirius' grandfathers would have been alive at this point in time. I'm changing this so that the Black grandfather is deceased. Since in this fic the title is passed like a baton from heir, lord or regent to heir, lord or regent, Regulus put Sirius in the line for inheritance again after he rebelled against Voldemort. Since Sirius' father died after Sirius was kicked out, the order goes... Lord Orion Black (deceased) → Lord Regulus Black (deceased) → Lord Sirius Black (legally deceased) → Regent Andromeda Tonks → Lord Harry Potter (now of age).

→ I know that some people want to read things like Harry becoming a phoenix animagus, or the Heir of Gryffindor, or whatever. I must say, I see these as the most boring, unbalanced and ridiculous tropes. The use of Lords of Ancient And Most Noble Houses is the furthest I'm prepared to go in this non-canon direction. I want to be clear: there is no special magical power associated with such titles; they are only used for politicking.

→ Thanks to everyone reading and reviewing, please continue to do so!


	9. Chapter 9

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 9**

* * *

"Ratspan. Bismuth. Buvolok. Foster Cousin Shutz. Earlok. How does work go?"

The young goblins chorused short greetings, but only two bothered to look up at Harry.

"Long and lustrous," Earlok said.

"Lucrative in learning," Bismuth added with a grin.

Harry plopped down in a seat at the longest table in the Underfoot Central Library. The dark walls, hewn from bedrock and lined with books and scrolls, loomed above him. "What are you reading?"

His five peers each lifted their books in turn.

"_Proper Chisel Maintenance_, the _Logbook_ of Whiphat the Adventurous, _Signs of Imminent Economic Collapse_, Borgnub's _Collected Poems_, and a two-part scroll of the _Principia Metallurgis_. Interesting. Is Mudflange keeping you busy, Ratspan?"

The thin goblin boy reading the chisel maintenance book groaned. "He keeps on saying 'Get the cornerstone right and everything falls into place', over and over. I'm not sure if he even knows any other advice! I swear I've learned more about cornerstones in the last week than any reasonable person should have to know in a lifetime!"

"Well, at least he's not complaining about your mortar any more," Harry said, finding his place in _Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_.

Ratspan made a face. "He's getting one of the other apprentices to mix mine until I can 'learn to do it right' – on my own time. Perfectionist."

Shutz looked up. "Really? So who's the poor offcut mixing your batches for you?"

"Fiddilrim. I'm keeping her tools in order, in return."

"Hence the book?"

"Hence the book."

Harry's gaze drifted away from his own page, over the book of poetry in Shutz's dye-stained hands, and then continued to Bismuth. "Who was Whiphat the Adventurous, anyway?"

The goblin rested a spindly finger on her place on the page and returned her attention to him again. "Part-time troll tamer, ex-military, slightly mad. Designed a boat, sailed it down the Amazon, stole diamonds from the locals, capsized, eaten by crocodiles. The way he tells it is pretty funny."

Bismuth looked across the table at the spine of Harry's three-inch-thick book and curled her lip in disgust. "Wizard stuff?"

He sighed and looked back down at the printed words. "Yes. It's meant to be a complete history of evil wizardry. But it seems to only go back a thousand years, and just talks about Britain and the Continent."

"Buh. Sounds like completely typical wizard prejudice."

"They're not that bad," Harry defended vaguely, his eye stuck on a reference to a sorcerer who made doilies from human skin. He decided to change the topic. "Is Buvolok sulking again?"

The goblin in question pulled his scroll a little closer to his face.

Earlok smiled nastily. "Drobwit really put him under the hammer after he mixed up the Resupply and Repurchasing columns on his work. For the third time in the space of a single morning," he added, shaking his head.

Harry thought of his own firsthand experience at how unpleasant the Master of Numbers could be when people persisted with stupid errors. "That's unfortunate."

"Yes."

"Yes," the young goblins chorused.

* * *

Badluk sat in his managerial office, drinking lime gall coffee and cleaning his pipe reflectively. He was quite pleased. The new Brother, Filius, had readily agreed to teach Harry a few things about magic whenever he visited Underfoot.

Such trips would be infrequent during the Hogwarts school year, of course, but Manager Bogripple had informed the council that a few years of intermittent instruction should still provide Harry with a reasonable grounding in – pause for sneer – _wizardry._ And when Professor Filius Flitwick was unavailable, some of Gringotts' human retainers might be paid to fill in as tutors. Not in Underfoot, naturally, but there were plenty of rooms in the Bank that were shielded from scrying.

Badluk moved his chair a little closer to the fireplace, and put his coffee mug on the hearth to stay warm.

The Brotherhood bonds prevented Filius speaking about Harry to outsiders, which was all to the well. The half-goblin had offered to assure Dumbledore that the boy was in good hands, and the Hogwarts Headmaster's report should then result in ruffled feathers being soothed at the human Ministry.

On the other hand, a _half-goblin_ making announcements about Harry Potter's welfare would cause anyone with a brain to jump to some fairly obvious and rather accurate conclusions.

Still. The Council had decided they would use Flitwick as an anonymous intermediary through the Headmaster, claiming an unbreakable vow of secrecy. Dumbledore was, on the whole, a good man. Better that he guess the secret, and take action as he thought appropriate, than send a missive to the Aurors in the Ministry and suffer their attempts at intervention.

* * *

For his part, Dumbledore didn't even try to use Legilimency on Flitwick. His normal ethical reservations might not have held up against like an emergency like this, but he refrained, knowing there would be no point. All professional duellers had some basic Occlumency under their belts. Filius had been a league champion; he would at the very least be able to detect Albus' probing, and he would not appreciate it one bit.

The Headmaster had realised where the boy was already, anyway. Ollivander's testimony combined with Flitwick's involvement was enough to imply the goblins' direct interference. They had the will, after all.

In more ways than one, presumably. The Potter will and the strength of will... Dumbledore finger-combed his beard idly and considered how much the Brotherhood could gain with a wizard like Harry Potter under their thumb. His future political pull would be immense on his reputation alone, whatever Severus said. When you put that together with two enchanted family rings going missing...

Severus Snape was sitting in front of Dumbledore's desk, waiting for the man to say something. He glared at his superior's habitual beard-stroking, but kept his silence. It was typical of a Potter to be inspiring so much trouble.

Albus sighed, and palmed a toffee into his mouth. What _could_ he do? He didn't have to exactly rack his brains about the goblin nation to know that they were nothing short of impregnable.

But _if_ Sirius Black really was innocent, and _if_ Dumbledore could get him freed, that opened up some useful avenues. Goblins were creatures of law; they would be obliged to revisit the Potter will. The Ministry would put an orphan with an exonerated mass-murderer without hesitation if the alternative even involved the word 'goblins'.

Perhaps, in his gratitude to Dumbledore, Black would allow him to put Harry safely back under the blood protections at the Dursleys.

"Severus," he began, "Do you remember Sirius Black?"

* * *

"_Barba_," Filius enunciated carefully, and his wand whistled a cheerful high note. "Now, again."

"_Barba_. _Barrrrrba_. Ba_r_ba."

"Try focusing your attention on the tip of your wand, rather than the spell itself."

Harry squeezed his eyes to slits and glared at the wand. "_Barba_," he said firmly. "_Barrrba_."

The last attempt was accompanied by a high-pitched purr from his wand, and Harry grinned at the feeling of accomplishment. He always loved to succeed at something for the first time. He had been a little worried that the reflexes learned from goblin-charms would just be too strong for him to overcome.

"_Barba_," he repeated, as Filius clapped in approval.

The note that the whistling spell created was faint, but that wasn't surprising when his magic core was undeveloped. Flitwick had compared it to building up muscles; you started with small amounts of exercise and eventually you could put more and more strain on them. It wasn't a perfect analogy – and wasn't supported by any of the theory he had read – but you certainly didn't see young children moving boulders or heating forges as adult sorcerers could.

"Fantastic, Harry." Filius looked genuinely delighted, which was quite striking. But Harry had already noticed that wizards displayed emotion more openly than his goblin instructors.

"I suggest you practise it until you can produce a steady note, and only then try varying it for different pitches. You can get an instinctive feel for what differences in casting can do by practising making sparks with your wand."

Flitwick sobered a little, and continued. "It will be a long, slow task to properly master your first wand-based spell at such a young age, but once you have, you will be able to cast it much faster, and without the exaggerated wand movements. It is important to extensively practise every spell you learn. By the time you know them fully, you should even be able to get away with being a little sloppy with the words or movements. Although that's certainly not a good habit to get into," he hastened to add.

Harry nodded, and smiled. "_Barba_." Whistle. "_Barba_." Whistle. "_Barrrba_." Whiiistle.

"In the interests of keeping your, er, foster parents sane, you should probably practise it outside. Now, you'll be pleased to know I did find you some books..."

* * *

Even the most stubborn wheels of bureaucracy can spin rapidly when people are supplying anger in sufficient quantities. Fury can work as a form of social lubrication.

Dumbledore had shared Flitwick's assurances about Harry Potter with Madam Bones. He had been careful to make his Charms professor out as an anonymous, but trusted, source, in a position to know that the Boy Who Lived was being cared for. Filius had been adamant he could reveal nothing more, and Dumbledore passed that on, with his regrets, to the DMLE Head.

As Severus had predicted, Amelia hadn't accepted simply Albus' assurances, choosing instead to berate him for 'interference with an investigation'. She even went so far as to threaten his arrest this time, although both knew it was an empty threat.

Dumbledore had caved in the end, and confided that Harry was under protection provided by the Brotherhood of Goblins, at which point Amelia had stood up and hurled her tea mug across the room, breaking a lamp.

In the ensuing battle of wills, Albus had stood strong on protecting his source. But he had mentioned the wand, and Boris Scintillion. When the Aurors had brought the Gringotts contractor in, he had taken quiet pride in being unable to reveal anything at all, even under truth serum, the goblin-vows sealing his jaw closed and holding his tongue still.

So Bones had dragged Dumbledore and Scrimgeour, along with Minister Bagnold herself and Cuthbert Mockridge of the Goblin Liaison Office, off for a formal visit to Director Gurmsalt.

The wily old goblin had been politely unhelpful at first, giving elusive answers in rattling bursts of Gobbledegook until Cuthbert began to clutch at his temples with the effort of translation. Albus watched and listened, feeling a note of amusement, and then made it clear that the jig was up.

Gurmsalt sent for the other Managers.

* * *

"_Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Universum_, a Modern Translation", Harry read aloud. "By Hendrick the Half-Damned. Amazing. And then, once I'm finished with _Magical Theory_, there's _So You're Wondering About Alchemy_, Volume 1. Well, I can make a start now."

What with apprenticeships, the vaults, examining his glasses, conversations with Filius, and all his personal reading, there just didn't seem to be enough hours in a day.

He took a handful of crispy dried moss wafers and went to his room, where several books already lay open. Then he began to read, with Prettyroot curled companionably on his lap.

* * *

King Gurmsalt the Wary led the way to an ornate, high-ceilinged meeting room, deep in the heart of Gringotts. He was followed by a train of goblins and wizards, who waited for him to be seated before they sat down at the wide stone table.

Gurmsalt set a long dagger on the table in front of him with a _click_, gazing down at it and making minute adjustments until it pointed exactly at the middle of the table. Then he reached across and stroked a huge lump of amethyst, which lit with a faint magical light.

"This is an ancient artefact you may not recognise," he said in perfect English. "A truth gem. It will flare if any falsehood is uttered in this room. In addition, my grandfather is a two-storey house in Bristol."

These last words were accompanied by a bright purple flash, which reflected off the jewel-studded dome of the ceiling.

The wizards exchanged glances. The goblins remained impassive.

"Now. Let me see." The aged Bank Director took out a sheaf of papers, sighed, and flicked through them.

Minister Bagnold shifted impatiently in her seat, obviously wanting to take charge, and Mockridge looked nervous.

Finally, Gurmsalt looked up again. "The location of Harry Potter is known to Gringotts. We placed him with a foster family seven years ago, in accordance with the Potter will. The Potters' wishes were quite clear. Gringotts representatives are willing to vouch for, but not reveal, the security measures in place around the child."

Dumbledore watched the amethyst crystal and smiled to himself. The faint light inside the truth gem swirled, but remained steady.

"We _must_ know where he is," Scrimgeour said, and was pinned down by the eyes of the eight goblins who had been available for the meeting. The large man perched uncomfortably on the too-small chair provided for him, and glowered back.

"The terms of the will were carried out to the letter," Gurmsalt said calmly. "Every minor stipulation was obeyed. Since none of the persons listed in the document were eligible and willing to take in Harry Potter, we housed him with an appropriate magical family within Britain. The main concern of his deceased parents was safety, and we placed him in as safe environment as we could find. We obeyed wizarding law to the extent required us by the will. We are obliged to say no more, for reasons of client-manager privacy, and his case _cannot_ be reassessed, because the decisions were made on Gringotts grounds and therefore no laws passed prior to the 1865 Accord are relevant to it."

The lights within the gem once again shifted and settled slightly.

"Nevertheless, we wish to view the will," Minister Bagnold said quietly.

"The disposition of a last will and testament is not and never has been the Ministry's business. View it you may, should you receive a full warrant from the Wizengamot to that effect."

Dumbledore smiled faintly, trying to remember who had witnessed the Potters' will. Probably Black, unfortunately. Of course, the Minister would unquestionably succeed in getting a Wizengamot warrant to view the will. But this would make it public knowledge that Harry was missing, and would do nothing for goblin-human goodwill.

"Perhaps I may suggest a compromise to settle this confrontation," Albus said cheerfully. All eyes turned to him.

"Allow us to meet the boy in a secure place under a pact of secrecy, so we can be assured of his good health and proper upbringing. Then, perhaps, somebody could be assigned to check on his welfare on an ongoing basis, at least until he is of school age."

Gurmsalt glanced at the Minister, then turned to meet the eyes of each of his Managers in turn. Dumbledore, watching carefully, noticed the Director's eyes lingered longer on two goblins in particular.

"The child is already seeing an accredited wizard tutor," Gurmsalt said eventually. "There is no need for ongoing Ministry interference. We cannot in good conscience object to an investigation of his welfare, but we must insist that it be carried out by trained St Mungo's staff, rather than Ministry busybodies. And it must take place on the neutral ground of Gringotts."

Madam Bones, who had been silent throughout, leaned over to murmur something in Millicent Bagnold's ear.

Albus hummed a little ditty to himself. While far from ideal, this was likely to be the best deal they would get. The lack of blood wards was worrying, but Dumbledore didn't doubt the goblins' protection was at least as good. His greatest concern was whether the powerful charm Lily Potter had placed on her son would last if he were separated from his blood ties.

"We agree that St Mungo's healers should examine him," Bagnold said. The middle-aged woman spoke with the quiet dignity that had got her elected, but the iron strength which had seen her through Voldemort's reign of terror underlay her words. "However, _we_ must insist that a respectable representative of wizarding society meets with him on a monthly basis until he attends Hogwarts. Mr Potter is a symbol of our magical nation, and we must be certain that he is being properly educated in all areas."

Gurmsalt's eyes flashed. "A quarterly basis. And we will know in advance who your representative is."

"I believe that I could help in-" Dumbledore began.

"No," Bagnold said, staring hard at him. She was aware that the public still clamoured for the old wizard to become the next Minister of Magic, and it rankled. "You have quite enough duties to occupy yourself already, I feel."

"Perhaps a trained Liaison from my office would be appropriate?" Mockridge asked querulously, interrupting the staring match between Minister and Supreme Mugwump.

"Actually, the up-and-coming Lord Malfoy has expressed an interest in child welfare of late," Bagnold said, "going so far as to make a considerable donation to the St Mungo's Children's Ward."

She folded her hands. "I am minded to appoint him to the role."

Dumbledore gave Bones a look. It meant: I hope you realise that would be a disastrous outcome.

Amelia inclined her head slightly away from him. "Perhaps the responsibility should be split. Given that it is a child's welfare in question, there should be a witch as well as a wizard. I feel that Governor Griselda Marchbanks would be appropriate."

Dumbledore smiled faintly. "Indeed."

"I agree," said Scrimgeour, following the lead of his departmental head.

Bagnold pursed her lips. "Very well. Two representatives, then."

King Gurmsalt, who had been looking measuringly at Dumbledore, turned back to her. "This is acceptable to Gringotts," he said blandly. "May I ask what the official Ministry position will be on the so-called Boy Who Lived?"

"The rumours are already flying thick and fast. We will issue a press release to the effect that he is living anonymously with a magical family in a secure location."

"Indeed, and that has the benefit of being true, as well," Gurmsalt said, the faint swirling lights of the truth gem reflecting in his eyes.

"Perhaps you could arrange to provide us with a current photograph of him? To, er, reassure people?" Mockridge asked.

"That should be possible."

"A good idea," the Minister nodded. "Also, we would appreciate it if Gringotts has no official comment on the matter."

"Understood."

"We will arrange a time this week for St Mungo's staff to meet Mr Potter at Gringotts. If you can provide a photograph tomorrow, our initial press release will go out the day after."

"Very well. If that is all?" King Gurmsalt picked up his dagger and stood up abruptly, followed by his Managers.

"It was a pleasure to speak with you, as always," the Minister said, and then coloured slightly. The truth gem had flared with sudden purple light.

Gurmsalt gave her a faint smile, showing no teeth at all, and the meeting broke up.

* * *

"Well, it could have been a much worse outcome, Amelia," Dumbledore said with a slight sigh as they emerged into the bright sunlight of Diagon Alley.

She gave him a strange look. "I know that. It was a very _good_ result. The boy is secure from anyone who wishes him harm, he'll be checked by healers, the goblins are probably not much worse than some other family environments, the law has been followed, and I only regret I wasted so much of my resources on the investigation. Frankly, Albus, we have bigger fish to fry, with this Sirius Black business."

There was a cough from behind them. The Headmaster and Madam Bones turned, to see Minister Bagnold regarding them from one of the marble steps.

"What 'Sirius Black business' would this be?"

* * *

Harry sat in a soft chair in his foster parents' dwelling and chewed a piece of dried cave eel, mulling over the news. He didn't object to being looked over by wizard healers, although he wasn't completely clear on why they wanted to. The goblins had healers, after all.

But he could tell that Badluk and Sibilig were annoyed by the idea.

"Productive day?" Sibilig asked him from across the room. She was reading the Daily Prophet with a marked scowl.

"Quite productive. I managed to cast the Whistling Charm and did a lot of reading in the library. Ratspan is still having trouble with mortar," he added with a smile.

"Everybody has their weak point," Sibilig said sternly. "Badluk gave up his glassblowing apprenticeship."

"Sibilig cuts herself every time she picks up a paring knife," Badluk retorted. "Ratspan should stick to assaying. He's meant to be good at that, yes?"

Harry smiled. "Yes. In that vein, I guess I shouldn't go into any field that needs maths."

"The whole point of a weakness," Sibilig said as she turned a page, "is to overcome it."

"Is it any good?" Badluk asked.

Harry blinked in confusion, then realised his foster father was gesturing at _Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_, which lay open in his lap. Instead of reading the annoyingly vague book from cover to cover, Harry had taken to scanning the index for references that sounded interesting.

"It's... not entirely bad. Just flowery. There was this funny thing about aggressive use of Portkeys, I'll see if I can -"

The next entry in the index caught his eye. "Um. Hey, I'm in this book. 'Potter, Harry'. That's strange."

Sibilig folded her newspaper. "No doubt regarding your part in destroying the last Dark Lord. What does it say?"

"Oh, yes. Page eight-four-three, page eight-four-three... here," he began to read aloud in English, "um... blah blah, '-on that fateful night. Accounts suggest that the child's soul was so good and pure it formed a natural shield which turned the Dark Lord's spell back upon him. Evil was brought low by evil, so turns the world; fittingly-' blah blah."

Harry looked up, blinking owlishly. "Uh, does that actually mean anything?"

"It means it is unadulterated nonsense and the author is a dribbling lunatic," said Badluk, lighting his pipe.

"The _soul_... that's another word for your magical centre, right?"

Badluk and Sibilig glanced at each other. It was fairly predictable that this discussion would crop up, with Harry's precocious nature and the fact that he read wizard books.

"Not exactly," Sibilig said. "Most wizards believe, to some extent, that every individual has an invisible part of them that survives death, is judged, and ...survives somewhere."

"So, a... a big place full of invisible organs? Like a heap of disillusioned gizzards, or... a pit full of ward-hidden intestines?"

Badluk had a coughing fit, and Sibilig looked sharply at her mate. "It's more ...mystical than that. The soul is not thought to be part of the body. We talked about mysticism, yes? When you were asking about the founding of the Brotherhood?"

"Oh, this is about religion again?"

"Yes," the two goblins said.

"So, is it real?"

"Accounts vary," Sibilig hedged. "There are books in the library on so-called 'soul magic' in the library, as practised by wizards. Perhaps you could talk to Professor Filius Flitwick about the above-grounders' take on such things. For now, though, you should go wash up. Soon will be the time for bed."

* * *

The next day was mildly entertaining.

Harry walked carefully around Sibilig in the morning, still sensing annoyance from her. His foster mother made him dress in his wizard clothes and comb his unruly hair. Then she took him up to Gringotts to see one of their employees, Ms Tollens, who had a strange device Harry learned was a camera.

For almost an hour the witch moved around, getting him to sit in different positions and against different backgrounds, setting up magical lights, and fiddling with the camera box. Sibilig grew more and more testy towards the amateur photographer, and was snarling under her breath by the time the last picture was taken.

Then his foster mother gave Prettyroot back to Harry – the rock worm hadn't been allowed in any of the photographs – and took the film to be developed.

Ms Tollens took him down to the Black vault, and they had a productive afternoon sorting through the unusual (and sometimes malevolent) magical dross of generations.

Then in the evening, Harry practised the Whistle Charm for a while, then went to bed.

* * *

Sirius Black stirred on the narrow pallet against the wall of his cell. He sensed it was morning again, and opened his eyes. He hadn't been sleeping.

He had let himself go far too much over the last few years, sometimes spending days at a time in the form of a dog. His mind was unravelling because of it. Right now, though, there were more pressing issues.

There were no guards' footsteps, no jangling of keys; no noise but the rasping of the Dementor in the corridor next to his cell.

Perhaps it had been some sort of clerical error.

Perhaps today would be the day they began feeding him again.

* * *

Dumbledore sat and worried. His thoughts were still on Sirius Black and Harry Potter. Harry had secretly been missing for years, the Black and Potter rings had disappeared more recently, Harry was living with the goblins... there was some link there, but he couldn't figure it out.

Albus and Amelia had tried to spin the matter of Black's spurious imprisonment to the Minister as an opportunity to redress justice. Hopefully she wouldn't speak to Barty Crouch; the man was just as driven now as he was when he was an Auror, with the additional downside that he had become extremely bitter.

For all that her career was on the line, Albus did think he had convinced Bagnold. At the very least, she would probably bring Black to the holding cells. Of course, he might suffer an indefinite stay there, depending on how the politicking played out, and how long Bagnold was able to delay the process. But for Black, even being imprisoned in the DMLE cells until the end of Bagnold's regime would be better than being imprisoned in Azkaban for the rest of his life.

One question in particular worried Dumbledore. If Black _was_ innocent, who betrayed the Potters? The nature of the Fidelius Charm meant the Secret Keeper would have had to tell Voldemort directly, but how had it happened? Was the man tortured? Did the Dark Lord appear to him in disguise?

And then there was the tragedy of Pettigrew... if Peter thought Black was to blame, and his Gryffindor nature drove him to attack the man, whatever happened would have been self-defence. Had Sirius _deflected_ a bombarding spell, rather than casting it? Dumbledore had found that Black's wand had been lost in storage somewhere, and was never tested for incantations.

Another thought struck him. Could the Potters have _switched_ Secret Keepers without telling him? Dumbledore suddenly remembered talking to Lupin, who hadn't seemed to trust him – Lupin, with his resistance to Legilimency – and his blood ran cold. Had he been taken in by good acting on the werewolf's part? Had Voldemort made Remus Lupin an offer he couldn't refuse?

* * *

Two figures moved in Azkaban, neither aware of the other's existence.

Sirius Black was trapped in a cell without food, being slowly driven mad by the Dementor that had stood only a single wall away for several days. He was currently in the form of a large, mangy dog. He only turned human and wore the heavy magic-binding chain when the Aurors came by.

The door had been unlocked when the Dementor was delivered, and nobody had locked it again. This seemed peculiar. It eventually occurred to his unhinged, doggy mind that they _wanted_ him to make a break for it, and have his soul sucked out. They didn't know, of course, that in his animagus form those loathsome undead guards were barely even aware of him.

If he did make a break for it, what would he do? Find a gap he could squeeze through and dive into the freezing ocean?

If he stayed, he would starve to death.

_Concentrate_.

Sirius dimly realised that he never thought things through as much as he should. But it did seem that each passing minute in the Dementor's presence, without food, would make him weaker when he inevitably did try to escape.

So he held his breath, and turned human for long enough to open the door, shivering from the icy torrent of animal terror that flowed into his hindbrain. Then, as the Dementor turned towards him, he changed back into Padfoot and slipped through.

* * *

Far below, in a different block, Bellatrix Lestrange paced her cell in small, slow steps. The thick chain jangled in time with her movements. Memories of the Boy Who Lived still stirred in her head from Dumbledore's visit a _who knew how long_ ago.

She thought of the grim Headmaster, and shivered. But the boy, she remembered, had killed her master. Not that she _believed_ that, exactly. But he had certainly wounded the Dark Lord grievously. A mere baby had destroyed her Lord's earthly shell, and sent his forces into disarray. Sent poor Bella into prison.

It was not a happy memory, and it resurfaced again and again through the Dementor-driven insanity.

She stopped her pacing and watched in silence as a tiny plume of gravel dropped from the ceiling. The stones had been weakened by constant exposure to Dementors. The last sharp fragment, slightly larger than the other coarse pebbles, fell neatly on top of the small pile in front of her.

Bellatrix slowly narrowed her eyes, as her thoughts danced and screamed their way towards a plan.

Seven years ago, with her mastery of wandless magic, she would have summoned the jagged rock before her, straight to her hand. Well... no. In fact, she would never have _deigned_ to hold a rock in her hand. It would have been blasting hexes or nothing.

Now, though, she reached carefully down to gather the rock in her withered palm.

And then she moved painfully over to the wall, dragging her chain after her, and began to chip away at the foundations of Azkaban.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ Exposition-heavy, yeah? There's likely to be more, until Harry gets to Hogwarts.

→ In response to some reviews: I'm trying to give the goblins personalities, but it's difficult as there are rather a lot of them. I'm hoping their distinctive names help distinguish them. The goblins might have used their extensive resources to break Sirius out of prison if it provided them with any net benefit, but it wouldn't have. A wizard not receiving a trial would never be enough to stir a goblin's compassion.

→ Thanks for the response to the fic so far! If you have any comments, please leave a review!


	10. Chapter 10

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 10**

* * *

_**=_=_=_ Sirius Black Escapes From Azkaban! _=_=_=**_

_[ By Lance Calciferous, criminal reporter ]_

_The infamous mass-murderer and alleged Death Eater, Sirius Black, has escaped from the island prison of Azkaban. This unprecedented breakout occurred early in yesterday evening. Aurors are refusing to comment on how the escape happened, but some Ministry officials have speculated that Black may have been aided by dark wizards unknown. The investigation is ongoing and a nationwide manhunt has been called._

_Head Auror Rufus Scrimgeour warned the public that Black is extremely dangerous and should not be approached. Anybody encountering Black should immediately leave the area and send for help. Minister for Magic Millicent Bagnold has stated that she has will request that the muggle Prime Minister make a similar announcement in the muggle world. For the probable response of the International Confederation of Wizards to this remarkable move, see page 2._

_Black had been imprisoned for the murder of twelve muggles and the wizard Peter Pettigrew. He is also notorious for having betrayed Lily and James Potter to He Who Must Not Be Named immediately before the end of the last war. For more on Black's crimes, see page 3. Black, age 29, is described as tall and thin,with grey eyes. When last seen he had long black hair and a beard, but he may be capable of disguising himself. It is also believed that Black may attempt to acquire a wand, and should not..._

Dumbledore skimmed rapidly through the rest of the article, which spanned most of the first three pages of the _Prophet_. It was roughly what he had expected after receiving advance warning from Amelia about the escape. Humorously, she had suspected _him_ of engineering it.

He wondered exactly what part Bagnold had played in all of this. He took comfort from the fact that if it had actually been an assassination, it would have been made to look like a natural death, not an escape.

The Headmaster had reviewed his Pensieve memories twice, each time growing more certain that Black was innocent. The man's sanity was too damaged for his memories and feelings to have been crafted by masterful Occlumency, but it wasn't _so_ far damaged that it could all have been crazed delusions. He really had felt guilt over the Potters' deaths, because he had switched as Secret Keeper. If only Dumbledore could be certain who he had switched with...

For Bagnold, of course, it wouldn't matter whether Black was innocent or guilty. Her career was on the line.

According to Madam Bones, she had ordered use of lethal force at the first sign of resistance from Black. Amelia could have countermanded that order, of course, but then Bagnold would simply replace her with an obedient lackey. Albus hoped the DMLE commander would have a private word with her most reliable Aurors, letting them know the political undercurrents of the situation.

Dumbledore left the newspaper lying open and paced back and forth. "Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive," he murmured to himself. According to the _Prophet_, the Minister had ordered every single hitwizard in the Ministry's employ out on the chase, and was offering a sizeable reward for information leading to Black's capture. What it didn't mention was the regiment of Dementors also out hunting; each was accompanied by an Auror or one of Bagnold's private clerks. The Dementors would be furious about Sirius Black's escape, and Dumbledore had no doubt that those fiendish gaolers would suck the man's soul out on the spot if they found him.

Not for the first time, Dumbledore bemoaned the way magical Britain was governed. The Minister had complete executive power as well as some legislative control – she could determine day-to-day policy, appoint Departmental Heads, introduce bills to the Wizengamot, and make minor changes to existing laws. Typically, most of her power would be delegated to her Heads and minor ministers, but she could run the country herself if she wanted to.

The Wizengamot, on the other hand, possessed the judicial power and the rest of the legislative power. Britain's Warlocks passed new laws and repealed old ones, debated and amended bills before the court, and could theoretically draft new legislation independently of the Ministry. The Wizengamot brought all major criminals to trial, and could legally summon anyone they wished to testify on any matter.

The Minister of Magic's power was checked by the other entities, of course. Wizarding Britain had learned the necessity of that under the leadership of Minister Leander the Ludicrous in the eighteenth century. Now there were measures in place so that the Minister could be censured or suspended by unanimous approval of the Department heads, stood down by agreement of the Head Unspeakable and Head of the DMLE, impeached by a nine-tenths majority vote of the extant Ancient and Most Noble Houses, or removed by a vote of no confidence in the Wizengamot. Needless to say, these were all extraordinarily uncommon events.

Albus half-heartedly wished he'd bowed to the public and taken up the mantle of Minister after the fall of Voldemort. He was sure he could have improved things...

Fawkes trilled, a strange, metallic sound, and the old wizard remembered his other responsibilities. He wheeled back to his desk and scanned the next page of the newspaper. By the end of the article, he had made his decision and his wand was in his hand.

"_Expecto Patronum_. Find Sirius Black," Dumbledore said to the ghostly silver phoenix. "And tell him this: leave the country immediately, you are in grave peril; do not trust Remus Lupin, but contact me if you can safely do so."

The Patronus leapt into the air and disappeared in a flash of silver flame. Albus sighed. For all that a man's life was at stake, his first priority was still Harry Potter. And frankly, that would have to _continue_ to be the case unless he witnessed an important prophecy concerning Sirius Black.

The article on Harry had been relegated to halfway down page 3. Yesterday's press release, photo included, had been saved by the _Daily Prophet_ for the much more widely-circulated morning edition. Then the news of Black's escape emerged too late for the evening edition. This meant that the information on the Boy Who Lived was almost lost in the clamour surrounding Black. It was fortunate, really; Dumbledore would prefer that Harry was not in the public eye. Bagnold would be spitting tacks, though.

The Headmaster examined the picture minutely. It was certainly the real thing. It showed Harry Potter sitting at ease, slightly slouched, in a marble-walled setting, presumably one of Gringotts' private rooms. The boy seemed calm, showing the occasional trace of boredom in a roll of his eyes or scratching the tip of his nose.

The image met Albus' eyes and smiled faintly, before clasping his hands and straightening his posture. Harry was of average build and strongly favoured his father's looks. Dumbledore's scrutiny took in neat, crisp robes of a modern style, well-fitting but certainly not ostentatious. Short, dark hair just reached the top of the jagged curse-scar at his temple. It was difficult to tell from the sepia-toned photo, but the child's skin seemed extremely pale. He occasionally blinked at someone out of shot to his left. In all, he seemed happy and healthy enough.

Dumbledore put down the newspaper and called for a house elf. "Drippy, please tell Filius Flitwick to see me in my office at his earliest convenience."

* * *

The Council exchanged speculative looks about the tidings their newest Brother had brought. The twelve goblins held their tongues until King Gurmsalt had thanked Filius the Useful and dismissed him from their presence.

"Dumbledore may be lying," Grippflag offered.

"Why? What would he have to gain?" asked Wurmspitz. "He would surely guess that Sirius Black is listed in the Potter will. If he wished to remove Harry Potter from our care to Black's, he would have the brain of a spoil heap to give us advance warning."

"Dumbledore is certainly not stupid."

"A _double_ ruse, then, expecting us to come to the conclusion that he is deceiving us?"

"He did not even openly ask for our support," Bogripple said thoughtfully. "I believe this is his peculiar way of giving a sign of good faith, and that he expects us to do 'the right thing'. Presumably, by aiding and abetting a fugitive."

"Hah."

"Hah indeed. Gringotts policy has always been to avoid involvement in Ministry investigations." This was Spinkrod, Manager of the Stock and Share Department and the youngest goblin on the Council, who seldom spoke. "What if the wizard Black should attempt to withdraw funds? Or even visit the Black family vaults?"

Ziggiz turned his rheumy yellow eyes on his leather-suited fellow manager. "If he attempts to regain the Black lordship, I do not know what will happen. The circumstances are unique in their every aspect. Of course, the problem is that the family vault may not be his only avenue for making a claim to the name."

"_Fire and phosphor_, is the Black lordship even important?" Badluk the Careful asked with a deep frown. "There _is_ still the Potter name, which will never be contested."

Wurmspitz shrugged. "It depends on what Black's politics are, and whether he might oppose us out of spite. Rumour has it that Black is to be executed on sight, in which circumstances control of the family would defer once again to Harry Potter, correct?"

"Possibly," Ziggiz croaked. "Or possibly not. I looked into this when I was considering the sway those Lordships would give us. If I recall, Black inherited his own position of Black heir from his estranged younger brother, as specifically determined by that brother's will. Yes?"

"Yes," Badluk confirmed, faintly recalling the nervous young man and the document in question.

"So when the brother died, the title passed on to Black, but he was already imprisoned and thus legally dead, so the lordship became available to his _own_ heir, named as Harry Potter."

There was silence as the Council considered this.

Bogripple gazed at the goblins in front of him from beneath hooded eyelids. "If Black is widely discovered to be innocent, he could seek custody. Despite our position of legal right, such an attempt would lead only to our capitulation or outright war."

"_Rocks fall_ on anyone who tells me either of those is an agreeable prospect," Badluk muttered.

"On the other hand," Bogripple continued, "if Dumbledore is rusting our doors with misinformation, Harry Potter's life is endangered. Not that one _more_ Death Eater at large makes a significant difference."

King Gurmsalt coughed. "Black was an Auror, yes? It would be difficult to apprehend him at a branch office, and impossible if he negotiated withdrawals through another party or owl. Besides, our legal neutrality only extends to Gringotts grounds. The last thing we want is to break the 1803 Accord by initiating a skirmish in the domain of wizarddom."

"We could detain him indefinitely if he was foolhardy enough to come visit the Black family vault, or his personal vault," Pogsheen murmured, leaning forward and showing off her metal teeth in a grin.

Sibilig nodded. "We could at least arrest him so that we could try to ascertain his guilt or innocence. Perhaps our policy until then should be fluid."

Gurmsalt watched the hesitant nods from around the table. "Let the orders go out, then," he said. "We will post a double guard, drawn by lot, during festivities tomorrow. Yes?"

"Yes," the managers chorused.

* * *

Every August 7, the goblins of the Brotherhood celebrated Justice Day – the anniversary of the return of Gringotts to goblin hands in 1865, part of a lasting peace agreement which had kept conflict between goblins and wizards below rebellion level ever since.

Harry attended a hunt in the outer tunnels for the first time, as a goblin in his Brotherhood majority. Each neighbourhood traditionally sent a party of hunters out to bring back red meat, which seldom featured in great quantities in the goblin diet. Each group of dwellings would then celebrate, roasting the meat in open pits, bonfires and huge stone ovens. Gringotts ran a skeleton crew in the afternoon, when the celebrations were beginning, and closed during the night. It was the only regular bank holiday in the wizarding world.

Filius had been invited to the hunt as well, and he and Harry kept up a quiet conversation as they meandered through the vast cave systems hidden below London. Harry was amused to see that Flitwick, in his usual robes, had to occasionally levitate himself over rough ground so he could keep up.

Harry carried his long knife and short staff, but didn't really expect he would get the chance to chase something down. He was still shorter and less agile than the adult goblins, and most of them had spears or crossbows.

The goblins spared the few rock worms they came across. Harry's ability to make serpents intelligent by speaking to them was fairly well-known in his neighbourhood, and nobody really wanted to eat something that might be able to talk. Of course, their reservations would disappear once they got far enough from Harry's home dwelling that the rock worms they encountered were likely to be wild ones. At that point, it was every snake for itself.

After a few hours, the goblins at the back were carrying a brace of bats and two errant rockpool turtles, and Harry's excitement had died down. He was in the middle of discussing goblin-charms with Filius when there was a startled yell from the scouts at the front of the cavalcade. A moment later, somebody sounded a horn and the cry of "Glaberat!" went up from several mouths.

Harry and Filius rushed forward. When they rounded the corner, Filius squeaked a startled oath. Beside him, Harry staggered, slipping on loose rocks in his surprise.

_That_ was something new.

Harry's first thought was that it was a young mole titan, straying far from its nest in the utmost bowels of the earth, and that they were going to die within seconds. Then his sense of perspective caught up, and he realised the animal was much too small. The ugly, wheezing creature in front of them would fit in a standard-sized room, whereas even a baby mole titan could crush a whole dwelling without paying attention.

The fangs on it were impressive, though.

Sibilig was standing beneath the huge, wrinkled rodent. As it reared up, snorting and whiffling, she jabbed her barbed spear at the base of its neck. Nearer to the entrance of the small cavern where Harry and Filius stood, one of the scouts was being dragged to safety by another goblin. He was bleeding badly.

Filvar and Oldlor, Harry's nearest neighbours on Spinneret Crescent, had already levelled their crossbows. Taking careful aim, they loosed bolts at the huge rodent's head. One struck true, piercing an eye, and it crashed downwards on all fours with a squeal of rage.

Harry cried out involuntarily and darted forward, but Sibilig rolled aside at the last moment. Her spear was driven deep into the creature's chest with a grisly _crack_ by the strength of the impact. Another goblin moved quietly around a stalagmite, waving his fingers over his spear before throwing it. The spearhead began to glow with heat as it hit the mole creature in the side, eliciting another pained squeal.

Harry rushed to help Filvar drag the wounded scout to safety, at the same time as a wave of strange light blossomed across the creature's shoulder. Flitwick spoke more words in his lilting voice, and rocks flew from all corners of the cavern. The stones crashed against the monster's body with great force, making it stagger.

Another crossbow bolt flew, and two jets of light in slightly different shades of red, and then Filius had to break off his next spell as Sibilig came into sight, climbing up the mole-beast's wrinkled back. Harry looked about for a rock to throw, but a heartbeat later the animal was sagging to the ground, Sibilig's foot-long knife in its throat.

Harry sat down heavily on a toppled stalagmite, heart racing and knees a little wobbly.

Filius knelt next to the wounded scout, wand dancing in the air. The goblin – Harry recognised him as Jerosh the Glazier – had suffered a vicious bite to the shoulder. It looked like it could have been much worse if he hadn't been wearing a wormhide shirt, but the flesh was still bloodied and bruised. The other members of the hunting party milled around, cutting strips of cloth for bandages or examining the strange carcase.

"Will he be alright?" Harry asked, voice shaking a little.

Flitwick glanced up and nodded at him. "It didn't hit any arteries, and I've cleaned the wound. He'll heal up with barely a scar in a few weeks – assuming that monster isn't poisonous?"

"I don't know. What _is_ that thing?"

Oldlor shook him companionably by the shoulder. "A glaberat. Sometimes called the 'dire naked mole rat'. My great-uncle hunted them in the caverns at Cornwall and Dorset, where they nest. I've never heard of them straying near to Underfoot before."

"Not poisonous?"

"Not poisonous," Sibilig confirmed, walking up to them and cleaning her blade. "Thank you, Filius."

Jerosh struggled to sit up and added his own thanks, hissing as he jarred his wounded shoulder.

"Not bad for your first hunt, Harry," Sibilig added, as he seized her in a tight hug. "I suppose the firebat would have been worse."

"I didn't have to watch you fight the firebat," he said, voice muffled by her clothes.

Sibilig gave a comforting hum. "When your foster father was twice your age, we went hunting and stumbled upon an unexpectedly large cave crocodile. He jumped on its back, stabbed it in the spine, then passed out when he realised what he'd done."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. Wait for an opportune moment to mention it in his presence, though."

Flitwick made a small amused noise, and Sibilig smiled wryly at him, before turning back to Harry. "I realise it may seem to be a family tradition, but in general, shoot from a distance rather than actually climbing _onto_ a large creature to kill it."

Harry kept close to his foster mother for the entire long trek back. Instead of butchering the glaberat on the spot and hauling back the better cuts, they allowed Flitwick to levitate its body. By the time they reached Underfoot the general consensus in the hunting party was that wizard magic wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

* * *

"Headmaster, I swore long ago that I would never have anything to do with that pathetic specimen."

Albus regarded his young Potions professor over half-moon glasses. "All I ask is that you keep your ear to the ground. Justice will be done in the end, but for now, he could pose a real threat."

Snape's thin lips tightened. "Really, Headmaster? A _werewolf_ could be a _threat_? I'm astounded. You should never have let that miserable creature into the school in the first place. And now you think that _he_, not Black, betrayed the Potters to the Dark Lord? Well, colour me surprised."

Dumbledore's expression grew stern, and the young man before him made a tiny flinching movement.

"Shall we talk of betrayal, Severus?" the Headmaster asked evenly.

Snape actually winced this time.

"And if not him, and not Black, then who?" Dumbledore's eyes were hard and blue like glacial ice. Snape had to steel himself not to look away from them.

"I- It could have been him, but it could have been anyone. You know I was not privy to all of the Dark Lord's secrets. I did not take part in raids or plan them. I was only ever useful for my expertise. By all accounts, the events of that night were quite ...impromptu. The Dark Lord acted the moment he had the information he needed, and only Bellatrix knew ahead of time where he was going."

"Bellatrix Lestrange has become quite, quite insane, I am afraid," Dumbledore said, looking old and grave. "She is almost certainly beyond questioning."

"Then the only man who might know the facts of the matter would be Lucius. I could ...attempt to ask him."

Albus pondered, then shook his head slowly. This _would_ be the ideal time to bring Black up in conversation. But Severus had reported that Malfoy seldom spoke of the past, and never of his dark Master's downfall. "We cannot afford to give away too much – that man has already far too much political sway."

Severus shrugged his angular shoulders slightly. "Then you cannot expect to discover much of note about-" he curled his lip "-Remus Lupin."

"Nevertheless. I _know_ that you still frequent some of the less savoury apothecaries, and certain similar haunts. Do keep your ears open, dear boy."

* * *

Harry addressed a plate of glaberat with vigour. The meat was dark and succulent, and a pleasant change from the usual staples of roots, fungi and burrowing insects. The long trestle table was laden with tasty novelties: fillets of some huge blind cave fish, tureens of bonemeal porridge, and an enormous alligator pie.

Around him, people sang and talked loudly. A few young couples danced at the edge of the bonfires. Others wandered off, hand in hand, towards the nearest secluded park, intending to make the most of the evening darkness as the great lights over Underfoot dimmed. Bards stood on tables to recite the history of the Brotherhood, and excerpts from the latest Scroll Of Grudges were handed out to small children.

The theme of the feast was justice, so Harry asked Flitwick about the recent escape of Sirius Black. The diminutive professor, who seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, set down his fork and thought.

"If Black is caught, and comes peacefully, he should be given the trial he was denied." Flitwick paused and glanced across at Sibilig, who raised an eyebrow and nodded. Behind her, a goblin was murmuring a charm as he juggled cutlery, and Sibilig was silhouetted against a corona of bright steel.

"The Ministry may prefer that he does _not_ come peacefully," Filius continued, waving his hands excitedly as he spoke. "Especially since, as you may have heard, there is a ...distinct possibility that he did not commit the crimes he was imprisoned for."

"For the current administration, a summary execution would be better than people discovering that the Ministry had imprisoned someone without trial, whether guilty or not," Sibilig explained.

"Yes, so that's the tusk-beast within the chamber," Filius agreed, nodding.

Harry and Sibilig watched the Charms professor carefully in case he suddenly went mad and attacked them with his fork.

"That doesn't translate well into Gobbledegook, does it?"Flitwick asked sheepishly. "_The elephant in the room_," he repeated in English. "It means, the substantial problem which nobody wants to talk about. In this case, those in power in the Ministry wants to draw attention to the fact that an escaped prisoner may well have been falsely imprisoned."

"What will happen when people find out?"

"If he were found innocent? Reparations, apologies, embarrassment," Sibilig said, spearing a giant land snail on her fork and passing her plate to be re-filled. "And wider repercussions, too. Have you tried these buttered wetas? They were imported from New Zealand."

"What sort of repercussions?"

"The Ministry of Wizarding Britain is the only government to use _Dementors_ to patrol its gaol. Knowledge that an untried prisoner has been exposed to them would sour already faltering relations between the Ministry and the other members of the International Council of Wizards. If it came to a trial and he were _acquitted_, there could be not just reparations, but sanctions on a massive scale."

"And the international scrutiny would make it a fair trial," Flitwick nodded. "There will already be an outcry from the countries who argue that the use of Dementors is barbaric, when news of the escape spreads. _What_ is in this salad?"

"Blade moss and copper-worms," said a goblin further along the table, motioning for the bowl to be passed down to her.

"Well, it's delicious," Filius blinked.

Harry chewed slowly, then spoke. "Why are the Dementors so bad?"

"They are truly foul creatures," Flitwick said quietly.

"Creatures of torture and terror," said Sibilig. "Being in their presence is considered cruel and unusual punishment. And their use for execution is disgusting, especially since it is not known for sure exactly _how_ they kill."

Filius glanced up in surprise at this, but then looked down at his plate.

Harry nodded. He would have to look back at those references to Dementors in the _Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_. There would surely be something specific in the Underfoot library, or failing that, the books of the Black vault.

* * *

"Be honest, but say as little as possible. Don't feel you have to answer any questions you don't want to. If you ever feel threatened, say you want to leave." Sibilig tweaked Harry's collar straight and flicked exasperatedly at his hair.

Badluk rolled his eyes at the boy. "Don't look so solemn. You just have to talk to them, and then we'll go do something fun. The Boulderclaw miners have found a new underground lake near the shaft they're sinking."

Harry brightened up. "Really?"

"Yes. I have a short day. We could go fishing."

Harry grinned. "Okay. In that case, can we go up to Gringotts _now_?"

Badluk rolled his eyes. "Come on, then. And leave Prettyroot here."

The boy's face fell again. "Must I?"

"Yes. And she won't be allowed back in the bank until you can go for a month straight without talking to her in front of Gringotts contractors," Sibilig said dryly.

"_You must stay in the dwelling today, Sssthsnnss_," Harry hissed. "_I go so that the others of my kind – the curious humans – may look at me. My care-parents worry I will show my power by speaking The Language in front of them_."

Prettyroot nuzzled his hand. "_Take care, friend. If these 'curious humans' turn out to be enemies, bite them._"

* * *

Harry tried not to squirm or fret as the green-clad healers prodded at him. Touching him with cold metal things was bad enough, but he wished they wouldn't keep talking to him as if he were an infant.

Although the senior healer, a grim-looking matron, wasn't so bad. She had shaken his hand and introduced herself as 'Selma, in charge of Welfare'. She cast numerous enchantments over his head and torso, while the others examined his fingers, scraped his teeth and asked him to spit into a potion. When he did so, the liquid changed from mustard yellow to a pleasant salmon colour, and the healer made an incomprehensible squiggle on his clipboard.

Badluk and Sibilig stood on the other side of the curtain with the Gringotts guards, muttering quietly amongst themselves. Harry felt comforted by their presence, and kept his fidgeting in check.

When the healers had finished with him they clustered together, conferring over their papers. Then Selma asked him to follow her into an antechamber where some more people would talk to him, and the door closed, separating him completely from the goblins.

Harry looked up with some trepidation at the two humans waiting within.

* * *

Lord Lucius Malfoy went through the motions of formally introducing first the Governor Griselda Marchbanks and then himself. He stared down at the boy throughout. The child was obviously nervous, but that was not unexpected. It was hard to believe that it was the vanquisher of the Dark Lord who stood so small and subdued in front of him. Lucius was disconcerted by how much he looked like his own son: the pale skin, the Black cheekbones, the carefully-schooled expression.

They seated themselves, and Marchbanks led the interview. Lucius ignored her as he continued to regard the Boy Who Lived. Marchbanks was an elder of the Wizengamot, a society lady of the highest circles, who had married into high blood and was frankly insufferable. Lucius thought of himself as her diametric opposite: an up-and-coming power, a wheeler-and-dealer and a mover-and-shaker in certain extra-legal circles, and overlord of an old, rich family. The only thing they shared was respect.

The healer, Malfoy noticed, was watching carefully, presumably to ensure the boy didn't become distressed. He forced his own attention back to Harry Potter, trying to appraise the child. Wherever he was brought up, he had at least been taught how to shake hands. And he addressed the elders as 'sir' and 'ma'am'. He said nothing unless spoken to, and his answers were short and direct. The boy didn't smile, and showed his teeth a lot more than was becoming, but those were acceptable foibles in one so young.

They questioned him about etiquette, and found he had no formal notions but waxed relatively poetic on the concept of respect. They questioned him about socialising, and he described several friends, politely refusing to give names for security reasons; some of what he did say was rather strange, though. They questioned him about diet, and he said he was happy with his healthy balanced diet of vegetables, fish and game.

It was strange. The boy seemed to have problems with certain colloquialisms and turns of phrase, and he often paused for several seconds to find a word he wanted. But he seemed rather intelligent apart from that. Lucius could feel quiet approval from the normally taciturn Marchbanks. Personally, he thought the boy had been coached. His own son wouldn't have managed to go so long without giving something damning away.

Malfoy didn't have to rely on simply what the child said, however. He glanced down, straightening a crease in his well-tailored jacket as he prepared himself, and looked back up into the bright green eyes of the Boy Who Lived.

Tiny tendrils of Legilimency inched across the distance between them. Malfoy didn't have the power to seek out what he wanted, not wordlessly and wandlessly, but the boy's surface thoughts were exposed to him.

Lucius sorted through the changing images as Marchbanks' prim voice droned on. The child was mainly focused on what the Governor was saying, but there were faint currents of memory and subconscious desires available. Malfoy was curious to see a near-complete map of Gringotts in Harry Potter's mind. The vaults themselves and parts of the deeper areas were covered by dark, smooth caps, completely impermeable to the slight probing. Curiosity turned into astonishment as Malfoy found a warmth towards many goblin faces, and a _conversation with a snake_ this morning. There were fragments of a conversation about Sirius Black, which worried the boy, but the visual parts of the memory were completely obscured by the same dark shields.

Lucius moved cautiously through halls of thought, avoiding the blank black domes that covered most of the doorways. Himself and Marchbanks, sitting in view of the boy... a paragraph about Dementors in an old book... something about goblins, and then hundreds of black mental surfaces... an ornate ring... another goblin, embracing him... the discomfort of the cotton robes... more thoughts rushing away from him beneath dark, immaculate shields.

The strange, half-obscured images seeped into Lord Malfoy's mind, and he reeled backwards slightly, trying to disguise the movement as if he were simply straightening in his seat. The child, who had broken eye contact completely with a glance at the Healer seated opposite, looked back at Malfoy curiously.

Lucius plucked a handkerchief to dab at his brow, smiling thinly at the boy. When he replaced it, his hand hovered over his wand. He briefly debated using it to focus his power and lay the boy's mind bare to him. But the goblins, jealous wretches, would certainly be on guard against wand-based magic in their own bank.

Goblins... in the name of Slytherin, what an enigma. All those odd flashes of memory, and Lucius knew they couldn't be the strangest of the secrets in the boy's mind. He had never before encountered those glossy black shields; it was not normal Occlumency. What spell was protecting Harry Potter's thoughts, and how had _goblins_, of all creatures, come to play such a central role in his mind?

He might have to buy a little more favour with Bagnold to get the bottom of this.

* * *

"Did you tough it out?" Badluk asked.

"Were the humans tolerable?" Sibilig added.

"If they weren't, I would have bitten them like Prettyroot said." Harry looked at his foster mother's expression. "No, they were alright. Governor Marchbanks called me 'gentlemanly'. The Lord Malfoy kept staring, though."

"All the questions didn't wear you out?"

"No. They just gave me a bit of a headache."

"Maybe we should call the human healers back again," Sibilig said slyly.

Harry's expression slid into mild horror. "Let's go fishing," he said firmly.

* * *

Lucius marched through marble halls, considering what he had seen. For some reason, his mind seized at the smaller details before he could make sense of the important ones. The name _Sirius Black_... he didn't know anything about his cousin by marriage. He was meant to have been the white sheep of the Black family, Dumbledore's man through and through. Lucius had never seen him in his Master's presence, and assumed he hadn't _actually_ been spying for the Dark Lord. He knew Bella had been torturing someone immediately before the Dark Lord visited the Potters; the reasonable assumption was that the victim was Black, and the information had been tortured out of him.

The Potters... what _exactly_ had happened that night, and what had happened to the boy since then? Lucius thought of the goblins that had recurred in his mind. It must be that the boy was living with a permanent Gringotts guard. The goblins did hire out mercenaries and bodyguards, after all.

But Lucius had heard from his sources that Dumbledore was not at all happy with the boy's living arrangements – was it possible that Gringotts had been contracted to not just guard, but _raise_ the boy? A snarl broke out on his face at the disgusting thought. Outrageous, even if the child was technically a halfblood.

Malfoy's cane echoed on the polished floor. He would pull strings to find the boy, and perhaps then remove him, to be raised in a sympathetic pureblood family. But Dumbledore had strings and puppets of his own, and there were no guarantees where that wily old bastard was concerned.

Perhaps Harry Potter would be corrupted by his malicious goblin gaolers. If proper wizards were not involved at all, perhaps he would even be raised feral and inhuman... and that, Lucius reflected, he could work with, when the time came to shape the world's perceptions of the Boy Who Lived.

* * *

The vendor rolled his cart, piled high with dried lizards, to a halt. He instinctively looked about for pickpockets, then greeted his old friend – a merchant carrying a tray of pies of dubious provenance. The dark, dank walls of Knockturn Alley closed in around the two of them.

After discussing the business of the day, one trader jerked his thumb at the poster of a manic-looking Sirius Black. "Nasty-lookin' bugger, ain't he?"

"What, you worried about stumbling across him?"

"Nah. He don't 'ave no wand, does 'e? What's 'e gonna do? Besides, if half o' what they say is true, 'e's not gonna have any grudges against anyone in Knockturn Alley. It's the hoipoloi who needa watch their backs."

"You know, there's a rumour going round he's innocent, and they're only after him 'cause he's Bagnold's jilted lover."

The vendors thoughtfully watched a pair of red-clad Aurors patrol by in the distance.

"Nah."

"I reckon he's long gone, anyway. He'd be mad to stick around with the whole Ministry turned out to find him."

"Werl... is runnin' orf the action of a sane man?"

"It is if they're just gonna cut him down in the streets when they find him. Bloody stupid, having all these Aurors around. He's hardly gonna turn up in Diagon Alley. Bad for business, too. At least the redcloaks ain't knocking on doors down here yet."

They looked about for Aurors again. The visible parts of the street were deserted except for a young man with an unfortunately hooked nose, who swept past them into the grey market potions shop.

"Well, they 'ave to be seen to be working 'ard on it."

"Yeah. Yeah, word is that old Ironbelly Bagnold won't be in the seat of power much longer."

"Aye. Especially if they don't catch 'im."

"Which they won't. Long gone, I tell you. Long gone."

"Sez you. Oi, get out o' here, you cur," the pedlar added, aiming a kick at the thin, mangy black dog lurking in the shadows of a nearby doorway.

* * *

"Oh, bleedin' 'eck, some bastard's nicked me wand!"

* * *

Harry kept up his regular apprenticeships and studies for the rest of the year. He had an extra workload from Flitwick's visits, although these became few and far-between when term began. He worked on a few more minor charms, learning to control his magical core and use his wand. In his free time, Harry joined his friends to spar with staves or play flick-pebble on street corners. Other times, they congregated in the Underfoot library, where he read about an eccentric variety of history, law and lore, depending on what managed to catch his attention.

Harry also traversed the vaults of stone beneath Gringotts, learning the untold secrets of their protection. One week he helped anchor a new set of great steel shackles for a guard-dragon. Later, he watched as one of the silent, lurching Unsdugu sat patiently, a pair of curse-breakers kneeling between its talons to sew up a split in its embalmed hide. Harry learned about the Thief's Downfall in the lowest level of Gringotts, a fine mist which became a raging torrent on command. He committed to memory the secret words which would twist and buckle the iron tracks, sending mine carts barrelling down past the Unfathomable Maze and into the chasms of the Below.

The Brotherhood received a delegation from the Swiss gnomes, and Harry mingled amongst them while the managers haggled. He observed their strange mannerisms, geometrically perfect goatees and bald heads. He marvelled at the strange cultural split, where the younger gnomes were bright-eyed and babblingly eager, and the older gnomes reticent but smilingly indulgent.

A certain amount of bullion was traded for the titles to several estates in subterranean Egypt, and goblin-blades were commissioned. Wurmspitz, head of Diplomacy, and Shindig, head of the International Department, did most of the talking over the course of the diplomatic visit. While the deals were brokered, Harry learned about international law from an enthusiastic gnome in his twenties. Later, he had an introduction to clockwork from an older gnome with a huge gut and an avuncular manner.

Malfoy, Marchbanks and Selma made trips to speak to Harry every few months. He learned from them a little about the upper echelons of wizarding society, and also how to get away with not really answering questions. The pale, dour Lord Malfoy unnerved him, and constantly seemed to be trying to catch him out. Harry would hate to have been left alone with the man. As it was, more than once Harry found the magical vows of Brotherhood intervening to hold his tongue before he could accidentally spill one of the goblins' secrets.

* * *

Dumbledore had tried to track Sirius Black, but the man seemed to have dropped off the map. He had sent several Patronuses, and even Fawkes, but had received no reply. There had been no confirmed sightings, no word on any official or unofficial front.

He couldn't really blame the man. Dumbledore had come to see him, attacked his mind, and hadn't then returned. He had been complicit in Black's imprisonment, and the escapee probably knew that as well. He would really have no reason at all to trust Dumbledore.

After a while the public fuss had died down to a minor unease, and the Dementors had returned to Azkaban. An increased Auror presence remained, and some might have noticed the greater numbers of Bagnold's hard-eyed private clerks, too.

* * *

A flake of rock dropped from the wall. Another hard strike, another shard, and this time Bellatrix could prise out an entire chunk of stone.

She weighed it in her hand. It was very slightly larger and sharper than her current hammer.

She settled on her knees and continued digging.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ Whew! Long chapters, perhaps I should split them into two.

→ My thanks to all the people who have reviewed so far! Keep it up!


	11. Chapter 11

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 11**

* * *

"_Muto plumbum_," Harry repeated firmly, a bead of sweat appearing on his intent face. The tiny pellet of lead in front of him lay still and unchanged.

Harry moved his wand a fraction of an inch to the right, peering down through the jeweller's glass. "_Muto silica_," he intoned. The pinch of fine white sand under his wand turned translucent, then after several seconds of resistance dissolved into a few beads of water.

He moved his wand a fraction more, and uttered the words, "_Muto carbonis._" A sliver of charcoal immediately turned into a droplet of water.

Harry sat back and flipped up the magnifying glass. He eased the crick in his neck, frowning. It had taken him months of practise to get transfiguration to work at all, and he still didn't understand why some substances were so much harder to change _into_ or _from_. Bewilderingly, some things were relatively easy to transmute in one direction, and almost impossible in the other. His introductory magic text was next to useless; it listed a huge number of limitations on various spells, but never discussed the _why_ or _how_.

Harry's thoughts turned to a more advanced transfiguration spell, one which Filius didn't know he was practising. He had hoped it would be useful in cleaning up after his attempts by restoring everything to a single state. Unfortunately, it was much harder to ensorcel already-transfigured substances.

He held his wand steady underneath the jeweller's glass and focused intently on the shape of the magic. "_Mutum ullus_." The droplets of water nearest to his wand turned to ice, then graphite, and just when it seemed he was going to manage to make quartz sand again, a random thought about breakfast drifted across his mind.

_Squelch_.

"Earthen sod," Harry swore. He tried to wipe the honey off the end of his wand, with limited success.

The apprentice Longfang had been ignoring the human boy's antics. Now he glanced over from his own high stool and snorted. Harry made a face in response, not sure whether to try a conversation again. It hadn't been well received so far.

Longfang, who was not quite twice Harry's age, had fallen into the habit of coming early to practise in the jewellery workshop. Like Harry, he took advantage of the empty breakfast hours to work without interruption.

Longfang was brilliantly talented with magic and glass-shaping, but had been having trouble at home recently. His mother had gone missing on a business trip in the wizarding world. His father had been in a serious conflict with another Brother, the sort of conflict where somebody loses a finger, and it had gone to arbitration with the Council. The whispers from Harry's peers was that the whole situation was a slag-ridden mess.

Now, though, the sharp-toothed goblin shoved his stool back and spoke. "All magic is grounded in intent." He walked over. "Observe."

Greyish fingers spun in the air. Harry recognised the goblin-charm for dispersing pockets of noxious mine gas. But instead of flying all over the room, the remaining sand and water on the table gathered into a neat pool.

As Harry frowned, Longfang made a more complex sign – there were gestures for unmaking and making, and a glyph for low-quality coal which he recalled from his _gadammeruk_. The charm should have transformed the half-enchanted mess on the tabletop into charcoal dust.

Instead, the damp, honey-speckled sand divided itself into four neat rectangles, and formed solid charcoal rods.

Harry grimaced. "How...?"

The tall young goblin grimaced back, and leaned wearily back against the bench. "If you chose, you could forge an iron pipe with jewellers' hammers. Yes?"

"Er ...yes?"

"It would waste a lot of time and damage many hammers, but it is possible. So it is with magic. Enough power, enough will, and you can override the proper form. Even inadvertently. If your-" the goblin sneered - "_wizard spell_ uses enough power to begin with, then if you focus wrongly, you may achieve something quite different from what the spell is _supposed_ to do."

"I hoped it would just work better because the spell itself was stronger," Harry confessed.

"Hmm. And where are your wits? Did you leave them in your slippers this morning? Did you do anything to confirm it was safe before launching into advanced magic?" The goblin rapped bony knuckles against the top of Harry's head.

Harry looked down.

"No. I would have thought that your very first lesson would be: don't attempt powerful spells if you cannot control them. Perhaps that concept is too _obvious_ to be a lesson, even for wizards." Longfang gazed at the spattered mess of honey, which had begun to transform of its own accord into coarse salt. "You were thinking about breakfast, yes?"

Harry nodded, cheeks red with embarrassment.

Longfang sighed, wondering not for the first time about his young human cousin. The boy was one of the most scholarly of his peergroup, yet lacked so much sense. It was probably his wizarding blood. The goblin shuffled his solder into a neat pile. "Come on, then. Breakfast. But clean that table first, or Bidpruk will flay you alive."

* * *

Bismuth leaned against the cave wall, silently observing Harry with her pale yellow eyes. He hadn't even looked up at her approach. He was too busy watching a rock.

After several minutes, the goblin girl grew bored. She coughed and stepped forward, picking her way towards him through the maze of boulders. "Harry. You realise it's your birthday, yes?"

Harry didn't turn his head. "Yes."

"Yes... and here you are, staring at a stalagmite."

A bead of water, which had been slowly forming on the talon of rock above, dropped. The just-turned-nine-year-old nodded, noted something down in a leatherbound notebook, took out a fine measuring rod, and scrutinised the tip of the stalagmite. Then he scribbled something else down, put the notebook away, and turned to look at her.

"Yes."

Bismuth rolled her eyes and scowled at the deliberately obtuse boy. "Is this some sort of punishment designed to teach you a meaningful lesson? Did you get sloppy with your charmsigns and accidentally stick one of the sorcery masters to the wall again?"

Harry scowled ferociously back at her, then bared his teeth to show he didn't mean it.

"No." He began making his way down from his stone perch. "It started when I was talking to Jaggir the Historian, trying to find out how the whole cavern system was created. She didn't know much about the actual cave formations, so she suggested we look at the study of geology which Planey the Odder composed centuries ago. She found a translation I could understand, but some of what _he_ wrote doesn't add up."

"Like what?"

"His ideas about limits on the scale and growth of nonmagical and magical cave systems. So I'm trying to work out how fast they really form. I started out with just this stalagmite, but now I'm keeping track of two different limestone formations, a dolostone one in the upper levels, and a piece of dogtooth spar," Harry explained, finally dropping down through a cluster of boulders to stand next to her.

"Buh. So now you need to know better than the famous ancestors. And how fast _are_ they growing?"

He frowned. "Slowly. It's so slow that any difference I see between them could just be a mistake."

"How very useful."

"It's still interesting."

Bismuth shrugged, then glanced at the letters painted on the base of the rock formation. "Working. Please stay away," she read aloud. "Cute."

"Necessary," Harry countered. "Some of the books say that you can damage stalagmite growth just by breathing on them."

Bismuth shook her head and forbore to comment, lest she be drawn into the madness. "I see. Congratulations on another year of making, by the way. Another year, another durance of growing, another measured light against the deepening dark, and all that. I think the humans say 'happy birthday'," she added snidely.

"That's what Filius said last week. He seemed really disappointed he couldn't be here today," Harry added thoughtfully. "And he gave me a book."

Bismuth shrugged. "Wizards are bat-guano insane. Who knows why they do the things they do." She looked at him sharply. "When you go off to learn wizard magic, I'm going to be so angry if you come back loopy."

She glanced back at the stalagmite. "Loopier," she amended. "Anyway, we're going to go learn to set snares with my uncle. Are you coming, or do you have more rocks to stare at?"

"I'm coming." They set off. "Uh, Bismuth, what do you know about dwarves?"

"Why do you ask?"

* * *

When he first heard he would be on a trip to a distant mountain to visit the Welsh dwarves, Harry had been excited. Then, when he'd thought about it, excitement had been supplanted by bewilderment. Badluk had said that less than a dozen people were going. Why was he, a child, included?

A trip to the library to learn about dwarves hadn't helped with the bewilderment. The Stacks had turned up a few references in old wizard newspapers to problems with 'street dwarves', and the dwarves were mentioned in numerous goblin treaties and foreign sagas. He knew that the Welsh dwarves had banded with the Brothers to help build Gringotts, once upon a time, and he recognised one or two dwarf-sigils.

But it seemed that few people outside the Brotherhood still recognised that the Welsh dwarves _existed_. The one small community of dwarves in Britain all lived in the single mountain-home, which the wizarding Ministry had no record of. Only a few individual dwarves exiled from the Welsh mountain for their crimes, or immigrating from other countries, lived in the wider realm of magical Britain. Most performed menial labour.

Harry's foster father had been uncharacteristically vague about the visit. He had only explained that one of the Gringotts sorcerers was in need of a new staff, which they would be commissioning from the dwarves.

"A staff? As in, a magical staff, like on the wall of Sibilig's study? I've seen the warders use them, but I thought we made them."

Badluk grimaced. "Ah. Just as we no longer have the secrets of wandlore, we lost the important secrets of staff-turning after our best crafters were executed by the human Ministry, centuries ago. Besides, dwarven wood-carving is completely unsurpassed."

Harry's face betrayed his surprise at this admission.

Badluk shrugged. "Magic rings, shields and staves: if you ever have need of one, go to the dwarves. For anything else, goblinwork is the finest." He paused. "Don't say any of that in front of them, though."

Harry shook his head earnestly.

The days seemed to stretch out interminably until the trip out of Underfoot. But eventually they had loaded the magic carpets, gathered their belongings, and were waiting in a Gringotts courtyard. A horn blast echoed from the front, and the first carpet in the convoy drifted silently up into the night sky. Harry gave it a nervous glance, and a moment later, the flagstones dropped away, and the stars swallowed him up.

* * *

Three large carpets travelled in convoy under an ink-black sky. The first was flown by Wurmspitz, the Manager of the Diplomatic and Policy Department, attended by two guards. The last was flown by a sorcerer, Bollotz, and guarded by another two goblins.

Between them, Badluk sat cross-legged at the front of another rug, steering with small shifts in his weight. Mr Scintillion and Harry sat near the middle of the carpet, and at the back stood two more armed guards.

An hour into the trip, Boris Scintillion asked Harry what he was doing.

The boy paused in the act of ripping another blank page out of his notebook, which he had taken to carrying everywhere. "Working out the shape of the magic around the carpet."

He slowly raised the page into the air until the wind suddenly snatched it away, then moved a little further along the edge. "We must be travelling fast, but there's no flying insects and things, and I can't feel any – what's the word? – _wind_," he said, switching to English.

The shadows on Boris' face suggested he was smiling. "That's right. It's 'gizallthrap' in Gobbledegook, but it's not exactly a common word."

"Thanks. So I guess there must be some sort of magical cushion of air around us. Judging by what point the paper gets caught, the area extends far enough above us to stand up, but only an arm's length to each side."

Boris Scintillion shook his head, wondering if all goblin-raised children had such an interest in everything around them. "What about underneath the rug?"

"I don't want to look down," Harry admitted.

Badluk sneered and leaned carefully back to borrow a piece of paper. The goblin dipped his hand slightly below the level of the carpet, demonstrating that the paper was immediately whipped away by the hurtling wind. "The weave floats on the air directly. I may fly it, but don't ask me how it _works_. Mr Scintillion?"

Boris shrugged. "I expect that is a secret known only to the Turkish carpet cartel. Although now that I look at it properly, this doesn't look like an Eastern carpet..."

"Why not?" Harry asked, resolving to look up books of geography when they returned home.

"It actually comes from our Seelie contacts," Badluk said. "Proper carpet-weaving is a closely guarded secret, and as far as I know, the only crafters in the human world are the Turks and the Egypt-Peru Consortium. Presumably they all work the same way, though."

Harry went on to ask Mr Scintillion about magic carpets. Like foreign broomsticks, skyboats and cloud-grapples, they were illegal to import into the United Kingdom – a measure designed to prop up England's otherwise untenable domestic broomstick industry. But _using_ any flying devices already within the country was completely legal, assuming it was done within the bounds of the Statute of Secrecy.

Harry looked out at the clouds faintly visible in the night. "If staves are like wands, is that why we're travelling in the dark? Because of the wand ban?"

Badluk gave his foster son an appraising look. "Partly. Magic staves are _not_ in fact covered by the Ministry ban, but if the wizards knew they weren't simply weapons of close combat, they would immediately try to add them to the legislation. Also, the Welsh dwarves wish to stay out from under the eyes of humans, and there would be ...difficult questions asked about our journey if it were observed. That is also why Mr Scintillion is present."

"To smooth things over," Boris elaborated.

The accompanying sorcerer and guards could handle any magical emergencies, but the former curse-breaker's presence would be important if they did encounter any Ministry officials. Things could rapidly become difficult for a group of goblins and one human child travelling to an undisclosed destination by magical carpet. If that child were revealed to be the wizards' Boy Who Lived under a goblin glamour, 'difficult' would rapidly escalate to 'disastrous'.

Harry frowned, looking from the respectable manager who was his foster father to the carpet ahead flown by Wurmspitz, the prestigious diplomatic head. The rugs were heaped with many gifts and trade goods, things the dwarves apparently needed: salted meat, leather, wood and woven fabric. Surely nobody would mistake them for anything but a Gringotts convoy on official business.

The ensuing discussion of Ministry prejudice, in which Scintillion chose his words very carefully and ignored the occasional snarl or muttered comment from Badluk or the goblin guards, intrigued Harry. But as the night drew on, sleep managed to overtake him.

* * *

"Harry."

"Whah."

"_Harry_."

"_Whah_?"

"Get up, Harry Potter. You may never see this again."

Harry groaned and pulled himself up, arms buckling for a moment when they encountered more 'give' than usual in the surface he had slept on. Harry patted the carpet gingerly, and crawled to the edge. They were swooping down through a misty valley, dipping to almost kiss the surface of a horseshoe lake. As he watched, they climbed again to curve around the verdant, mist-clad face of a mountain.

Halfway around the slope, perpetually shadowed by a deep overhang, was a sheer cliff of weathered grey slate. The carpets slowed their rapid flight, drifting to a stop on the rugged plateau in front of it.

"The Gate of Gawaan, King Under Dwarves," Badluk announced, stepping down from the carpet. "What do you think, Harry?" He gestured the boy forward.

Harry slowly approached the wall. Up close, he realised that the faded stone cliff was a weak illusion. The real stone surface that lay an inch beneath the false image was dark, almost black, and completely unblemished. He looked it up and down, slightly uneasy at the fact that he was obviously being tested. That tended to happen a lot with the goblins. The elders looked for anything which could be made into an object lesson.

Scintillion frowned, and one of the guards muttered something, but Bollotz the sorcerer just watched with glittering eyes. Badluk, eyes also fixed on Harry, narrated the history of the gateway in a monotone.

"Created in the Century of Black Glass in what was then the mountain-home of Darkridge. Hewn from the living earth by the Welsh King Gawaan, beautifully inlayed by – us, as it happens, and enchanted by the Crafting Bard from the Utmost Depths beneath the so-called Holly Mound. Hinged and aligned by the king's son and daughter, Skarf and Ragni. All for the purpose of creating a safe place for trade between the Unseelie and the Welsh Dwarves. This was long before the Unseelie Court fell, before Darkridge itself fell, beneath the might of a combined army of Scots magi and – us, again. The Brotherhood's politics have always been fluid. And so the dwarves fled, and now we stand here, before the Gate of the Nameless Mountain. A pretty tale, yes?"

The dawn light seemed to run off the dark grey surface. But there was something, where it hit certain parts of the door - "Yes. Invisible runes again..." Harry muttered, taking off his glasses and leaning forward until his nose almost scraped the rock.

"The symbols, if you can see them, are the crest of Gawaan himself, the sceptre of the House of Llelor, and the six scythes of Enyyn Duras. The inscription at the top credits only the Crafting Bard in the construction – unsurprising, really. You will never meet a modest elf. The rest of the runes are old and magical, rather than descriptive, in nature."

Harry carefully traced the ones he could reach, then turned to stare at his foster father as the silence stretched out. "And do you want me to try to open it?"

Badluk gave a complex shrug. "You might _try_, I daresay."

Harry returned a long look, then turned back to the rock face. "_Magrakkus_." Nothing happened. "_Ha'gplaz_." He repeated the words four times, and the runes under his hands responded to the more powerful revealing-sign. Spidery silver lines appeared, a dim glow which stretched all the way up the stone wall. Symbol after symbol formed strips that described a huge rectangle in the rock.

He stroked the surface with one finger. "Ammrok tharg zan edkullen. _Gate of Gawaan, please open for us_."

Nothing happened, although Harry hadn't really expected it to. He tried modifying a dwarf-bolt charm, that being the only piece of magic he was certain had to do with dwarves. There was no bolt, but you never knew. "Portal of the Welsh Dwarves, unfasten your latch," he murmured.

He tried several faltering words from his few encounters with Old Goblin. "Grimmak nothrog suggesi, gizak mirugug. _Threshold to the mountain, hear my request_."

Finally he tried simply forcing his magic into the door, not daring to draw his wand in daylight to help it along. "Reveal your secrets," he suggested. The dull cliff face continued to loom over him.

Harry took a step back and nodded to his foster father, who was humming infuriatingly. "That would be all the magic I can think of, in all the tongues I know."

Badluk cackled. "What are you going to do, then?"

Harry scowled. "I'm trying to think of any better words. Unless you think I should break the door down with your head?"

Badluk stepped forward. "Well, you might have tried knocking with your knuckles before my head, but the underlying suggestion is accurate enough." He rapped sharply on the rock three times, producing a surprisingly deep booming sound.

"We're expected," he explained.

* * *

"I would have figured it out."

"Of course you would have."

They flew on in silence for a while.

"I mean, not all doors are difficult to open, right?"

"Of course they're not."

"So the lesson is learned, this time."

"Of course it is."

"You deliberately let me think it opened by magic. All that stuff about the Crest of Gawaan and runes carved by elves..."

"Of course I did."

"You're so annoying," Harry said at last, staring at the polished stone walls flashing past them.

"Of course I am." Badluk grimaced at him for a moment, then gestured ahead at the two squat figures who had emerged to join the lead carpet when the cliffside opened. "I did not attend the last visit, but joined the previous one fifteen years ago. I recognise those dwarves to be the guides: Hazzad-tus, daughter of Holt, and Giggli, son of Glint. You will find that few of the beings here speak much Gobbledegook, and almost none will deign to recognise English."

"Is there anything I should... you know, do or not do? Say or not say?"

Badluk looked at him seriously. "There are... factors at play. Nevertheless, protocol would suggest that as a child, you don't speak unless spoken to. Don't touch anything unless invited to. Dwarves clasp arms in greeting. Don't bow. Don't stare. Don't ask difficult questions."

They flew on through halls of stone.

* * *

Reaching a large, round room, Harry helped Badluk and the guards unload the carpets. The dwarves took Wurmspitz aside to speak to him in some heavy tongue. They had the deepest voices Harry had heard, even compared to humans.

Badluk explained a little more to him as they stacked timber and furs onto stone pallets in the gloomy stronghold. There had once been nothing but hostility between dwarves and goblins, such that all friendly mentions of the dwarves had been struck from the archives, and the pre-Brotherhood goblins had rewritten the history books to make them out as a race of monsters.

Later had come the great spread of the humans, the mining wars and a terrible plague amongst the dwarves. By the time the Statute of Secrecy was forced upon the country, the dwarves had retreated to their new capital in Wales and the goblins were embroiled in centuries of bitter rebellion. From that separation had come tentative peace and then outright alliance. The dwarves and goblins, together with several other of the twilight civilisations, were united against wizardkind.

The dying breeds, like the dwarves, the extinct, like the wind-wights, and the exiled, like the Seelie, lent their silent support to the more politically powerful face of Gringotts. The goblins, in their semi-regular visits to the Nameless Mountain, traded permanently sharp goblin-silver for unbreakable dwarf-steel, rare creatures for rare metals, shackles of binding for rings of protection, and cut gems for wardstones.

Again Harry was surprised to hear the usual rock-hard Brotherhood pride in goblin workmanship above all else falter as Badluk explained how the enchantments woven into dwarven metalwork were stronger, because they used a special system of layered runes, and how dwarven stonework lasted _eternally_ rather than merely _indefinitely_.

Then the carpets were neatly rolled and the goblins assembled. Hazzad-tus or Giggli (they looked almost identical to Harry's eyes, but if he had to guess, he would suppose the ostensibly female Hazzad-tus was the one with the shorter beard) rumbled something. The other dwarf opened a door in the wall which he hadn't even noticed. Harry stepped forward with the others into a world of fire and metal.

* * *

Remus Lupin gulped down one last cup of tea, _scourgified_ the chipped mug and hung it with the others. After a careful walk around the cottage, he returned to the kitchen and picked up his old Hogwarts trunk.

Lupin's owl to Dumbledore about Black had gone unanswered. Fair enough; the great wizard was busy holding jobs as Headmaster, Supreme Mugwump, Head Warlock, and who knew what else. His reports and questions about Harry Potter had been ignored, too. Lupin didn't know what to think about _that_, even after the article in the _Daily Prophet_.

But Dumbledore had always been secretive; all he could do was hope that the newspaper had been right, and that the boy was being kept at the absolute highest level of security. It hurt to think that such security might not even leave room to assure Lupin of the child's safety, but he had learned _never_ to underestimate the power of anti-werewolf prejudice.

Lupin left a parchment envelope on the tiny kitchen table. It contained his rent paid up until next week. It said something about the character of the man that he felt ashamed he couldn't leave the sum for the whole month.

Many months had passed with no hint of – of _the murderer's_ presence, and Lupin had finally concluded he had left the country. Si- _Black_ had needed to repeat the stealth part of the Auror exam three times; he had never had a jot of secrecy or cunning.

Well – except that he had managed to disguise his ultimate betrayal.

Lupin squeezed too tight and cracked the wooden handle of his trunk. He sighed, fixed it with a wave of his wand, and closed the front door.

There was only one thing to be done now, and that was to hunt the man down himself. Nobody knew him better, after all, and there was nothing left for Remus in England. He would have had to leave the house soon anyway, unable to find enough work to keep up the rent. Even in a world with conjuration and transfiguration – and you didn't get through seven formative years with James Potter without getting good at transfiguration – there were bills to pay.

Lupin knew only the tiniest handful of werewolves who had managed to remain in civilisation. All of them other than himself were pureblood or old money. Most of them stayed out of society, their very existence hushed up by their families.

But generally speaking, you couldn't live in the human world if you couldn't hold down the most basic of jobs. Oh, you might _survive_ – but you couldn't live.

Lupin locked the door behind him, pocketed the key to post, and Apparated away towards the Channel, never looking back.

* * *

If Harry had been even remotely familiar with beekeeping, he would have compared the layout of the fortress under the mountain to that of a hive. Each floor was a discrete layer, filled with large, many-sided rooms and short passageways between them. The ceilings were ten times as high as those of dwellings in Underfoot, but nowhere near as high as the roof of the main cavern of his home.

Each massive room seemed to have a single function. In some, the centre of the floor was stacked with barrels or blocks of stone. In others, a workshop or forge lay in the middle. Many otherwise empty rooms had a central bonfire or pit of coal. No room was so full that its contents reached the walls.

The air was warmer than Harry used to, and smelled of smoke, meat and hot metal. The walls were of cut and polished dark stone, lit by an eclectic range of torches, candelabra and gently glowing crystal orbs. The floors were variously tiled or covered in strange skin rugs – from white wolves, firebats, elk, and enormous bears.

Through it all paced the Welsh dwarves with slow, heavy footsteps, dressed in heavy leathers and furs. Most stood eye-to-eye with the goblins, but all were considerably wider. Bearded and lined faces turned to consider the goblin delegation's progress. Most were blank and solemn, although a few openly scowled at Mr Scintillion or looked at Harry with something approaching curiosity. In several rooms, dwarves gathered to talk in their booming voices. In a few others, they worked metal or wood with intense concentration. Apart from those rooms, and the sound of the goblins' footfalls, the stone fortress was silent.

They passed down through the layers of the mountain. Harry caught glimpses of a room full of iridescent moths, another in which a great serpent of fire coiled and writhed, and one where a waterfall roared down into an apparently bottomless chasm. By the time they had reached the rooms assigned as their quarters, Harry was cowed by this place so similar yet so different to home. He wished he had been allowed to bring Prettyroot.

* * *

Harry remained on edge as the visit continued. Unlike Underfoot, the days and nights weren't delineated by the glow of underground lights, and it seemed that the dwarves worked steadily around the clock. It was hard to keep track of when to eat or sleep.

In the halls, he was _watched_ all the time – watched by dour and solemn dwarves whose language he couldn't speak. Badluk had showed his teeth and said Harry was going to have to get used to the experience, as it would no doubt happen again when he went to be educated in the _wizarding world_. A sneer automatically accompanied those words.

Several times he accompanied his foster father and Wurmspitz to one of the halls of the current Mountain King. All the discussion was in an old dwarven dialect he was unfamiliar with. Bollotz, the goblin sorcerer who was with them, translated a little for him, but the conversation was too dry for him to follow, especially when he was so intimidated by the inscrutable watching eyes.

In the end Harry grew bored and managed to sway Gritzam, one of the guards, into walking with him through the honeycomb halls of the Nameless Mountain.

They wandered past the workshops, stopping often to see the small differences in the way dwarves worked iron or cut stone. They examined, from a respectful distance, the huge tapestries and mosaics that adorned the walls of several chambers. Hazzad-tus, who Harry had indeed picked out correctly despite the uniform drab furs, solid figure and dense beard, accompanied them a few times. She spoke heavily accented Gobbledegook, and haltingly described to them the history of the mountain, the nature of the runes around the walls, and tales of great artefacts her ancestors created. Harry in turn tried to pick up a few dwarven words for the important things – mainly metals and architectural features.

They sometimes passed one of the goblins in their wanderings. Harry noticed Mr Scintillion never left the chamber they had been allotted, but just sat reading and casting Cheering Charms on himself.

Harry practised a little with his wand – the lintel of every doorway in the fortress was a keystone for the powerful secrecy wards that kept the human Ministry away – but the whistling charm seemed stifled and out of place in the ringing gloom of the mountain.

* * *

After almost a week, Badluk took Harry with him again to the hall of the Mountain King. Inside the chamber, a dozen Welsh dwarves stood in conversation around a single seated figure.

Harry could sense a difference in the atmosphere this time. The stares sent his way were more frequent and more appraising. Wurmspitz and Badluk continued to speak in the old dwarven tongue, but at one point Harry was asked to reveal the Black and Potter rings on his fingers. He had no idea why the dwarves would think such things mattered, in this strange and isolated world. The goblins had made it clear that the titles were all but meaningless, apart from the seats on the Wizengamot that came with them.

The small, white-bearded King of Dwarves sat silently throughout, slowly tapping weathered fingers on his stone chair. The ancient figure waved off or nodded slightly to the advisors who appeared at his side, but his gaze continually returned to Harry.

Harry, for his part, clasped his hands behind his back and tried not to let his legs tremble. Again he wondered why he was here – in this chamber or in the mountain at all. Was he just a curiosity, as the first human in the Brotherhood and with his strange personal history in the human world? Sometimes, amongst the goblins, he felt he was just a lesser piece in the Council's political game of Hnefskafl – was this just an extension of that?

Just when Harry's legs felt like they were going to fall off, a dwarf broke off from murmured conversation with the sorcerer Bollotz and walked forward, a small golden hammer swinging at his side.

Harry awkwardly clasped the arm offered to him, as he had seen done, and the dwarf's stony face cracked to speak rough Gobbledegook. "Harry Potter. I am Dur Goldbarad. I work wood and carve rune, and stand for the king ven he cannot, ja? We haff some questions. You are pleased to answer?"

"Er, yes. Sir."

"You speak to groundworms, ja?"

Harry blinked, then caught on. "Snakes? Yes, sir."

The dwarf grunted. "And you haff been reading in the field of justice, ja? And all the wizard custom."

"Yes sir. I have to work on my normal studies most of the time, but I've looked at some law books."

"Ja, you go where interest takes you. Good. You are much famous in the world of wizard?"

"I- that's what they tell me." Harry rubbed at his scar nervously.

The dwarf Dur leaned forward. "They tell you, you destroy a dark lord, ja? And the curse that famously leaves no mark, it leaves a mark on you. No vitnesses to say what curse used, either. Your pápá says, you are thinking child, you read about Dementors and caves forming, you know there is problem here. You vill stand still as I look at it, ja?"

Harry swallowed and nodded. Dur leaned down slightly to squint ferociously at his forehead, occasionally glancing down at the golden hammer thrust through his belt. At last he reached out one finger and rested it on the scar.

"Hmmm. Much is unexplained, ja? Still. You can use the magic? Goblin magic? Wand magic? Either."

"Um, I can do some of both, sir."

"Good. Follow."

The dwarf nodded across the room at his seated king, then turned on his heel and marched towards the door. Bollotz the sorcerer caught Harry by the elbow and pulled him along in the dwarf's wake.

The guides stood at the entrance to the huge octagonal meeting room, waiting for them, and fell in behind. Dur was walking briskly down the stone hall.

"After some negotiation, our hosts have agreed to make _both_ of us new staves," the goblin muttered to Harry.

It took him a moment to process the words. "Why? What- do I need one?"

"In part, it is a gesture. There are other subtleties, which Badluk will tell you or not as he sees fit. But a staff is a very …dwarven gift. They don't use wands at all." Bollotz paused. "They seldom use staves either, but there are strict customs regulating when and to whom you may give an axe, which is the only viable alternative. Since you're not marrying one of them, and you haven't saved their lives..."

They turned a corner, and the goblin let go of Harry's arm, satisfied he was keeping up.

"Dwarves have never had a wand ban inflicted upon them. Thus their skills with wand-carving and, by extension, staff-turning, have never waned. This is a unique opportunity for you. Staff and wand magic are very different to the signed forms of magic which you know. A staff is essentially a heavy-duty wand, but it take a slightly different skill to use. With it, you will in time be able to learn the more complex magics of our healers, ward experts and curse breakers if you wish. You will be the first person, after Brother Filius, to know goblin spells _and_ wizard spells. Most of the staff magic is only different from that of wands by accident of history, but again, the subtle differences in the actual... implements, if you will, make the distinction stronger."

Bollotz folded his arms inside his heavy cloak. "As you may have realised, magic itself works differently for goblins and humans. All of _us_ are magical, but most of us have magic to a lesser, rather than greater, degree. There is more variation in those of us who are true sorcerers, too. Witches and wizards certainly vary in perceived power, but most of that is simply skill or lack thereof. Actual squibs are rare, and genuinely weak wizards rarer. There is a large gap between the wizard and the muggle."

Harry watched the dwarf striding ahead of them turn into another hallway. "But goblins cover the whole range?"

"The full spectrum, yes. Everyone is taught goblin-charms to the best of their own particular abilities. The few of us with genuine power tend to go into trades that actually _involve_ magic, and learn to use staves to enhance our power further. The rest become craftsmen, who need a certain amount as well. Those with almost no magic tend to do the banking, the mining and the soldiering. Sibilig has learned a certain amount of staff magic, as she oversees training of the curse-breakers. Badluk is a sorcerer too, but magically weaker. I myself am extremely powerful." The goblin's fingers danced in the air as he continued.

"We can teach you some spells for a staff which we could not for a wand. But most you will learn to cast with either. Do you know the word 'synergy'? An apt metaphor would be... stronger muscles allowing you to climb cliffs faster, but also making you more adept at blacksmithing. Or the quite different applications of mathematics in the accountant's and warder's arts."

Bollotz snarled down at Harry's deep grimace. "Yes, mathematics is fundamental to several branches of magic. You already know this. Just as you know you will have to rise above your laziness at some point, and persevere until your understanding is better."

His expression softened. "Boris Scintillion tells me your numeracy would still be considered ahead of your human peers."

Harry sighed, and nodded. The goblin continued. "I doubt you would be allowed to use a staff at the Hogwarts school, but it will be useful at home. Of course," he added quietly, "there is no Ministry trace on a dwarf-made staff, either."

Then he stopped short, and Harry did too, as Dur halted in the middle of a round room, amongst many old wooden cabinets. He beckoned the goblin and human forward, then waved at the flat drawers around them. "Small samples of all woods, each core or capping piece we use, are in these. Ven it is time to craft we shall draw on our stores, ja, but first we must find a match."

"Each staff is a unique thing. It haff almost what you would call..." the dwarf stared at the ceiling for a while, searching for the word. "A personality, ja? The _medium_ – the wood, the core, the cap, see – together with shape and unseen runes make it very distinctive, very-" Dur waved his hands – "Very whole."

"Will it be like my wand?" Harry asked. "Crafted from holly and phoenix feather?"

"Good question. Typically, ja, if we know a medium is a good match then we might use it. But I think what is in your wizard wand is not matched to you."

The dwarf extended a hoary finger until it hovered over Harry's scar.

"I think it is matched to that."

* * *

A lump of rough stone cracked and fell away from the wall before the relentless chipping.

Bellatrix paused for a moment, staring blankly at the patch of grey sky showing through.

Then she raised her piece of rock and continued.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ Thanks for reading! If you've any comment at all, feel free to leave a review!


	12. Chapter 12

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 12**

* * *

Harry's hand automatically moved to trace his scar as he thought. Bollotz shifted his weight beside him but remained silent.

"Why?" he asked eventually. "I mean, how can you tell?"

"I haff carved staves for three centuries," the dwarf Dur said, hooking his thumbs through his belt. "I am the master shaper, ja? I can _smell_ holly is not right wand-wood for you. But this is not all. Your pápá tells me what the carver, Olaf-vander, he say. The wand shares the core of the dark wizard who tries to kill you, ja? Not unusual, but ven it happens to two people who are linked some way, almost always it is the 'brother wand' effect. This is ven two people have stronk blood ties. It is never because one tried to kill the other, ja? So. You are not related to this dark wizard, we know this. Was first question we asked."

"So..." Harry said slowly.

"So, best idea? 'Brother wand' effect is between dark wizard and _himself_, because dark wizard have exact same blood, same magic pattern, as self. Is simple, ja. Carver Olaf-vander hand you a wand which matches well the dark wizard, because he leave something behind in that mark on your head."

"He left a piece of himself?" Harry failed to suppress the shiver that gripped him. "A large enough piece that the wand was drawn to it, instead of ...me?"

He glanced up at Bollotz, who was looking down at him with glittering eyes. "We were aware there was something off about the scar already, yes? Something dark, and something light, all at once. The curse breakers could do nothing, not if we wanted to leave your magic intact. And your foster parents have made you swear to tell them if you have any unusual pain or sensations from it."

"Yes..."

"Yes."

"Ja," Dur added in his rolling voice. "But is still enough to worry. There are... river curls... are... in your, your line..." he waved a hand in the air and thought for a while in silence. "There are _eddies_ in your _continuum_ of magic, ja? The, eh, field around person. Can see the differences, sometimes." The dwarf looked down at his golden hammer again, and for a moment something dark and moving seemed to be reflected in the gleaming head.

"Eddies are always there, but contained. Only three cases where needs action. If you haff disturbance with magic, if you haff problem with old wound itself, or... if dark wizard returns. Head sorcerer, he is often goblin-friend, ja, and wisest wizard? Head sorcerer _Dumbledore_ – he thinks the dark wizard not truly killed is, ja?"

Bollotz inclined his head. "So the Council has reported."

Dur turned back to Harry, and stared solemnly for a while at the small, jagged scar. "I can only more say, go to the Unseelie for help. Ask the spirits of the Holly Mound, ja? Or, if so dare you, the reavers in the Place of Thorns."

Bollotz scowled, making a cutting motion in the air with his hand. "We may yet, but these are not places for a human child."

"Who exactly are the Unseelie?" Harry asked, wondering why the very name struck a note of terror in him.

The dwarf gazed into the shadows for a while. "They... are neither here nor there. Not quite dead, not quite sleepink. Not quite of zis world. They were imprisoned by men, ja? Shackled in cold iron, trapped. Beneath the ground or in stranger places. They vait. They are old, ja, and terrible, but are patient. They will emerge again, ven the stars are-"

"Later, please." Bollotz made another sharp cutting motion with his hand. "Back to the matter at hand, yes?"

"Ja. If you will begin with these samples..."

* * *

The staff-making process proved even more interesting than Harry had expected, especially since he had an active role to play in it. His curiosity about the crafting was enough that his new questions and fears involving his scar were forgotten for the moment.

First he and Bollotz slowly sorted through hundreds and hundreds of different materials, with the instruction to put aside anything they had a 'good feeling' about. As they went, Harry tried to guess what the various samples and blanks were. He found that he knew all of the metals and minerals, and some of the types of wood, but was at a loss when it came to the parts harvested from animals, only correctly guessing turtle shell and ivory. Dur gave the right answers, Bollotz translating whenever the dwarf didn't know the Gobbledegook name.

As the piles grew, Dur also explained – haltingly and by analogy – the threefold functioning of wands (and staves, and similar tools). Firstly, they conducted magic, like lightning rods. Secondly, they stored magic, like jars. And thirdly, they wove magic into a more elaborate and purposeful form, like sewing needles.

The magic core in each tool absorbed magic from the environment, storing it, and using a small portion of it to enhance the power of spells. A wand that had been used repeatedly would run low on its reserves, and draw more on the caster. This was one of the reasons that spells couldn't be cast or held indefinitely.

But a wand also acted as a focus for magic. "Like drilling a hole, ja? Instead of trying to push a piece of metal with same weight through something using palm of hand, you let the tool do the work. You turn the up-down force into round-and-round, and the shaping makes it much effective." This streamlining was especially important when learning to cast a spell. After fully learning a charm, somebody should be able to cast it even with an inferior or misaligned wand. With practise and dedication, it could often be done with no wand at all.

If anyone present had been familiar with the concept of training wheels, that would have been an excellent analogy. As it was, Dur explained how a good smith could in time learn to identify all his hammers by weight and grades of iron by smell, could hear the rate at which metal was cooling and detect any flaws in it by changes in that rate... so that eventually, it would make no difference if the smith was working in the dark.

Wands, Bollotz added, were relatively weak tools, only storing so much magic. The cloaked goblin explained that wizards in Britain had foregone the increased power of staves for the speed and flexibility of wands. Any spell that required more precise gestures to shape the magic was much harder, or sometimes impossible, with a cumbersome staff.

"Ha," Dur boomed. "And staves are harder to carry about, ja? Smaller wand, so convenient, put in sleeve or shirt flap, everyone uses wand. But in Europe, everyone teach staffwork and use staff for warding, rituals, occasions of ceremony. Other countries, sceptres, compromise between power and speed. Or stranger things, ja? Amulet, tar doll, stone knife. Actual tool is not so important. But good fit is. These days, even among my people, we do not always tailor staff to dwarf, ja? Staff sometimes is handed on and is _good enough_ fit, so not bother to craft new one."

The dwarf grasped the head of his golden hammer thoughtfully and continued to speak as he sorted through the piles. "Is even worse among humans. _Everyone_ drawn to unicorn tail, so put that in wand, bang, there you haff it. Or give heart-of-dragon if the wizard can handle powerful core. Only sometimes, tricky customer, give them bone-of-griffin or feather-of-phoenix or several cores. Usually only end up with..." the dwarf fumbled for the word - "_approximate_ fit, ja? And in families, often inherited wand is very good match because of brother ties. Is common knowledge. Often, but not always. So wizard ends up with family wand even if slightly too whippy or heavy to suit, or even core may be worn out. ...There."

It seemed they were done. Harry and Bollotz both had neat heaps of swatches and strips in front of them. A tiny flickering blue light appeared in Dur's hand, and his other rested on his hammer hilt as he looked down at each pile with intense focus. Periodically his stare would suddenly shift to either Harry or Bollotz, and he would pick something out of one pile and discard it or place it somewhere along the neat rows that were slowly forming in front of him. As he moved each sample he muttered about the various properties of the materials and the ways they might interact with each other.

It was fascinating to watch. Before long, the stacks of ingredients had been much reduced. Harry didn't pay much attention to Bollotz's staff materials. The goblin's pile was much smaller, presumably because he already knew what worked well for him.

Harry hadn't honestly felt drawn to any wood in particular, so he had chosen the ones that looked and felt nicest. Dur turned them over repeatedly in his hands, muttering about tension and graft and flow, until he scooped up two different slivers of wood with satisfaction, hands darting back to select several bottles of stain and varnish.

The core was just as difficult. Dur hovered for a long time over a jagged wyvern claw Harry had been fascinated by, and his stare was more intense than ever when he bathed a rope of basilisk skin in the blue light of his dwarf-charm. Harry had also picked up a kraken tooth, but that was frowned over and put back hurriedly. The eventual winner, though, was a segment of incredibly ancient hydra spine, complete with ossified nervous tissue. Bollotz seemed mildly perplexed by this, but whatever significance it had went over Harry's head.

Each staff also needed a cap for its foot, and a more elaborate headpiece. Harry and Bollotz had both immediately sought out goblin-silver, to Dur's grim amusement. The goblin sorcerer had also picked up a sample of coal and what looked like a fire-blackened shard of pottery, the latter of which was eventually discarded by the dwarf craftsman.

Harry's pile still had a lump of amber, flakes of rose gold, some sort of spiralling fossil, and several different gemstones. These were slowly sorted and re-sorted into rows, and Dur's withered nose drew closer and closer to the wooden surface he was working on.

"Rose gold, too temperamental, not well suited to carry charge for oak. Amber could work. Ruby, for the weave, or agate, for the unmaking, ja? Yellow opal and green opal here too, more general use. The stone-shell is problematic fit, I think we leave that aside. Drawn to amber and ruby – maybe as they both let magic flow at such speed, like lightning splits an old tree... but amber and ancient bone and stone-shell, those three together, is much of coincidence. The bones of the earth, ja? Holds more power but _warps_ it, wants to be alive again. No fossil wood chosen, surprising... maybe just a problem of heft, and white oak is wood-bone. Goblin-silver and ruby, too zealous together, no dampening at the end of spell, we must discard one. Still, must be two very different halves, range of choice suggests this. Yellow opal and red agate, but that gives us problems at the interface, ja? I think... yes."

The dwarf rapidly looked up at Harry, down at the materials, and plucked up his final choice. "We begin the craft, ja? Giggli, Hazzad-tus, they go to fetch enough raw materials from stores."

Dur handed the wooden trays of materials to the dwarf guides, who stumped off into the endless halls, then beckoned to the Brothers.

The adjacent room contained what looked to Harry like a woodshop, but with many tools he had never seen before, and whose purpose he could only guess at. Most were carved with runes or made of curious substances. His fingers itched to pick them up, but he knew better than to use another craftsman's tools without express permission.

A large lathe in one of the room's five corners shuffled about slowly on spindly legs. Harry and Bollotz watched as the dwarf prepared his work area, and then with the guides' return, began to shape the wood. Dur built both staves at the same time, in a slow but fascinating process, the creations seeming to grow underneath the dwarf's gnarly hands.

A length of hydra spine matching the sample was carefully lifted from a velvet case and sealed in a blank of rowan wood, heavily runed. The lathe drew elaborate sweeping patterns in the surface, which were inverted and spelled onto the inside of a thin layer of white oak. This was laminated onto the staff, and then a second layer flowed up the outside. A red-hot rune appeared near the base of the wood, and Dur let the smoke curl into the air as he turned to the other staff. Later he switched his attention again, and a final layer of white oak laminated itself to the staff, leaving it almost as thick as the dwarf's muscular arm.

Hours later, when the varnish had dried to Dur's satisfaction, he drew the golden hammer from his side for the first time. With a muttered charm he raised it high and delivered a ringing blow to the headpiece of Bollotz's staff, a perfect sphere of high-grade coal enmeshed in an elaborate filigree of goblin-silver.

Light flashed for a moment before he lowered the hammer again. The dwarf flicked a tiny errant wood-shaving off the staff, peered at it from each angle, and nodded in satisfaction. "Bollotz. Yours."

The goblin walked forward slowly and said something respectfully in the old dwarven tongue, before taking the length of wood. Something immediately glittered in his eyes. The sorcerer tapped the staff three times against the stone floor and produced a stream of blue-white sparks which formed the moving shape of a ibis-headed tomb guardian. Bollotz smiled broadly, showing his slightly pointed teeth, and swept the length of wood through the air, producing a wild howling noise.

Dur had already turned back to Harry's staff-in-progress, and gestured to the varnish drying on the wood's surface. "Tricky customer, ja? Always is harder if you have not had staff before," he added when Harry blushed. "But yes, very tricky. The stain made from giant squid ink and old elf-woad, very old, have used that but once before. The varnish, too, unusual. Is part lac beetle, part erumpent fluid, that much common. But your hand seeks out the vial with ground oliphaunt ivory. Taken from huge ancient tar pit by ice gnomes, traded to our ancestors long ago. Bones of the earth. I think you have more affinity for underground even than your goblin people, ja?" A small grin appeared on the dwarf's weathered face.

Bollotz looked up from running his fingers over his new staff and made a small displeased noise.

"Is joke, is joke," Dur said without removing his attention from a strand of heated goblin-silver. He was directing the metal over the foot of the staff, forming a solid base. "Still, something to think about, ja?"

An hour later, the dwarf finished applying the Invisible Runes with a tiny, bristle-less brush, and ran a cloth over Harry's finished staff. It was topped with three claws of goblin-silver, clutching a bipartite gem. In deference to the hydra spine core, Dur had split each claw into three interlocking strands. The smooth, perfectly round crystal they clutched was made up of two hemispheres: one of vivid green opal and one of amber, warm liquid orange dancing in its heart. The gem was flawed and the amber cloudy – when the dwarf held the staff up to the light it cast coarse and mottled shadows on the floor – but together they formed a gem larger than Harry's two balled fists. There was no visible seam between them, each half appearing to grow naturally out of the other.

Dur stood it on end, and it stayed upright when he took his hand away. The pale staff was slightly taller than Harry himself. "Is most adequate work, I think. Now, important – this is tool. Is next best to indestructable, ja? Hang your coat on it, wedge door shut with it, use to fight or spit suckling pig, but always remember, is tool. Respect for a tool does not mean mount on wall so it cannot be damaged. Means proper maintaining, but also means _use it_."

"Yes, sir. I will."

The dwarf grunted. "Now, just as important: follow me."

* * *

Harry was first allowed to touch his new staff in an empty stone room. Bollotz had made sure he was wearing his leather undershirt and explained that people had been known to 'spurt flames uncontrollably' until they were used to a staff's power. Dur laughed and muttered something which Harry didn't understand, but suspected he might when he was older.

"It should help that you have used a wand before." Bollotz shrugged, and stepped out.

After the footsteps had receded, Harry approached the staff. It was leaning innocuously against the wall, pale and strangely serpentine. Light glittered through its headpiece as he held out his hand.

The shock he got from contact was sharp and burning, almost like a snakebite. It might not have been the most powerful object he had handled in his time wandering Gringotts' vaults of stone, but it seemed to be an extension of his own power. His fingers clenched instinctively around the white oak, and a wind sprang up from nowhere to tousle his hair, shimmering down his arms and bursting into fat electric blue sparks when it reached his family rings.

"_Seams dripping with ore_," Harry whispered reverently, slipping inadvertently into Parseltongue. "_Blood and shale. That... that is not like my wand at all_."

It was a full minute before his breathing was under control enough to leave the room and thank Dur profusely for the creation.

* * *

The dwarves seemed almost thrilled to see Harry with his new staff. Beards twitched up at the corners. Ancient faces cracked into laugh lines like glaciers calving. The King of Dwarves clasped his arm, and Bollotz stood behind him and murmured formulaic responses for Harry to repeat.

And then, just like that, it seemed that all business had been completed and the trip was at an end. The goblins moved out of their assigned quarters. The carpets were loaded with ingots of mighty dwarf-steel, fine spellproof shields, and an assortment of runed cogwheels which would bear any torque. It seemed very sudden.

Harry was far from stupid. He knew his family history, had witnessed the increased attention the human Gringotts employees gave to him. He knew that no other human child would have been taken in by goblins, no matter the contents of the will. He knew that, in fact, he was politically important – although he wasn't certain of the _how_ or the _why_. He knew that his Brothers wanted to be the hand, and him the tool, that would forge greater freedom and prosperity for the many-times-wronged goblin nation.

But it still took until the very end of the visit for him to realise what was strange about the attention he was drawing. It was difficult to tell from the dour Welsh dwarves, but they seemed to be weighing him up as some sort of future _saviour_. And the receiving of the staff seemed to be the capstone of that, like foreign dignitaries exchanging gifts after signing a treaty.

He thought back to the Swiss gnomes, and a few other briefly-introduced luminaries from the nonhuman world. Was he being lined up to champion the cause of much more than Gringotts?

* * *

Harry's fingers danced through a series of tiny balls of light, knotted together in strange ways.

The goblin-charm was not, in truth, all that complex. Nor did it require great power – obviously; after all, he was only a child. It had taken him an hour to patiently pull all the threads together, one by one, and a single slip could have unravelled the whole edifice. But now it was finished, and it told him exactly what he needed to know.

He sat alone on a high stool in Bidpruk's jewellery workshop, surrounded on three sides by a web of light that looked like the cat's cradle left by some strange, fiery creature after it had hurriedly left for a suddenly-remembered appointment.

The pattern dipped and spiralled towards where his glasses lay on the workbench, curling curiously around the six rune-knots. The play and quiver of it told him what the second of the four enchantments on the frames did.

"Magnification," Harry said aloud with delight. He tried the first few handsigns of the appropriate goblin-charm, blinking as his eyes prickled in response. The weave before him shimmered. He prodded it a few more times, and when he was certain, let the threads drift away, sagging forward a little with exertion.

He put on his glasses, and found himself staring at the tiniest pits and cracks in the smooth stone bench before him.

"Perfect."

"_What are you staring at?_" Prettyroot coiled up the boy's arm.

"_The table. I have found that the magic on my glass eyes can see much smaller things._"

"_I thought you did not hunt insects._"

Harry grinned and stroked the snake's head. "_I do not._"

"_You will hunt me insects?_"

"_Perhaps. It is also useful for the making of small things._"

"_A great triumph, then?_"

"_Yes. I must find Bidpruk, to tell him._"

"_The surly one,_" Prettyroot hissed.

"_Yes, the surly one._" But first...

Harry drew his wand, noting - as he always did now - the difference from his staff in the tug it gave on his magic. He grabbed a stray piece of copper wire, and looked down at it through his glasses, seeing every detail magnified.

Feeling pleased at not having to position the jeweller's glass, he firmly pictured a wooden button. "_Mutum ullus_." This would let him work in his own time – even at home, in front of a nice fire.

The wire had curled up and started turning into a button. Now, as his attention wavered, it suddenly veered towards the shape of a scrap of tinder. The result was a sort of bushy copper disc, which _pinged_ resolutely into its final form.

Harry prodded it cautiously. It dissolved.

"_More practise required_," Prettyroot said with a sibilant laugh.

* * *

Governor Marchbanks pursed her lips. Whoever had been educating the boy had allowed far too many ideas to enter his head. Not that she was against education, of course. That would be quite hypocritical of her. But there was only so much of it one should inflict upon the very young. She wished he would stop asking _questions_ about everything. It was unnerving.

She put down her teacup and turned the page.

"And this is a still taken of the Durytsian Frieze, at the base of the Sixth Arch of Piedmont, again demonstrating the influence of the Hellenistic Period of Wizarding Culture, which still has great impact on our arts today..."

Perhaps there was something wrong with the boy's head, that the Healers weren't picking up on. Merlin knew, Lord Malfoy had been of no help in the half-dozen times they had met here. Marchbanks glanced across at him. The man barely even _tried_ to instil culture into the boy, instead letting her take the lead and spending most of his time gazing into space or watching the child.

She reflected for a moment on how young Malfoy looked for a lord. Although heavens knew he had must have looked even younger when he had taken up the Head of Family position. That was almost a decade ago, when his father, Lord Abraxas Malfoy, had died in mysterious circumstances.

The boy was staring at the open book. "When you say 'our arts today', do you mean..." he began.

Marchbanks sighed internally. If he was as eager as this in their next session, she would have to resort to deportment lessons.

* * *

"And then we looked at the history of their costumes," Harry recounted, "Which seemed a little pointless. Still, it was better than learning how to drink tea. And all the different things that a gift says, depending on what it is and how it is wrapped."

"Really," said Badluk flatly, tapping his fingers agitatedly on his desk.

Harry nodded. "That was two seasons ago. I think..." he trailed off, looking into space.

"Yes?"

"I think wizards must have developed a coded system of gift-giving as a backup language in case their mouths and ears suddenly all collectively fail."

* * *

Harry's white staff spun through the air, meeting his opponent's simpler pole with a _clack_. He turned slightly, letting the goblin girl's weapon slide away from his.

The dwarf-carved staff was essentially indestructible by nonmagical means, so he had started using it for sparring. He was used to a shorter weapon, but no doubt he would grow into it.

A moment's inattention cost him as Bludfrang swept his feet out from under him, followed a moment later by the expulsion of breath as he hit the ground.

"Yes, yes, keen strike," he muttered to a chorus of background sniggers.

"Maybe stick to using it for magic?" the young girl said, mirth dancing in her eyes. "You used to be able to beat me at least one in three times."

"He can only do sparks with it," Ratspan interjected from the side of the courtyard.

"The curse-breakers don't think it's important for me to learn staff magic yet, and none of Brother Filius' wand spells carry over well," Harry said, leaning on the length of white oak and watching for sneak attacks. "Everyone keeps telling me I need to 'learn control', but they haven't really said _how_."

"What happens when you try your little wand spells with it?" Gitztick's pole suddenly swept through the air, and Harry shifted his grip to avoid being rapped on the knuckles. The two fighters began circling each other, the older goblin shaking one of her plaits over her shoulder with a practised flick.

"Not a lot. The wand uses too much precise motion. I've only gotten results with the basic transfiguration spells which don't use gestures, and then the staff is sort of... _too_ powerful."

Harry jabbed, and Gitztick leapt back easily, almost knocking Harry over with her riposte. Bludfrang moved into range and struck at the other goblin's knee, but her staff was parried at the last moment.

"Hence that inkwell in the library with the solid block of bronze instead of ink?"

"Actually, it should have turned back by now." Harry feinted to one side, but Bludfrang ignored it.

"So you're going to dare set foot in there again?"

"...Maybe next week."

* * *

"Do you want to see something _keraghakursk_?" Harry asked, using a goblin word which would be directly translated as "akin to the roaring of mole titans in the utmost depths", but in the parlance of the young meant "completely awesome".

The loner Longfang glanced across at him. "Will I regret it?" the goblin youth asked warily.

"Just come look."

The goblin was eventually persuaded to peer down through the finest jeweller's glass in Bidpruk's workshop, under which Harry had fixed his glasses in a stand, with their own magnifying charm switched on.

"...What am I looking at? What are all these _things_?"

"I've got samples of well water, saliva, and a silty cavern pond."

"This is the pond, right?"

"No, that's the drinking water. _This_ is the pond."

Harry slid a new dish of water droplets under the makeshift apparatus.

"...I will never drink water ever again."

* * *

"...and the muggle book Sibilig got me calls them _protozoa_."

"Marvellous!" Filius squeaked, and fell off the stool.

* * *

"Advanced economics," said Badluk, dropping the ledger on the table and sitting down.

"The sort without any maths?" Harry asked hopefully.

"No," came the grim reply.

* * *

"But we have a fixed exchange rate," Harry frowned, turning a cushion over and over in his hands with increasing frustration.

Badluk held up one cautionary finger. "Well spotted. Normally, arbitrage would be a serious problem. However, we have certain advantages. Firstly, approximately half the gold in existence is completely unknown to the muggle world. This drives the rate up."

The goblin raised another finger. "Secondly, monitoring anyone trying to sell any sort of magical gold to muggles is one of the duties the otherwise ineffectual ICW actually takes seriously."

Another finger joined the first two. "Thirdly, the bank independently tracks the exchanges made by any person or business each year, and clamps down on those who play the markets. Gringotts currency exchange fees are already, shall we say, _not negligible_, and are prone to becoming _somewhat more substantial_ when wizards try to mess with us."

A fourth finger. "Fourthly, while the Ministry requires us to exchange muggle money, they also compensate us for a reasonable percentage of what are typically losses each year. And finally, the vast majority of wizards have a strongly-ingrained idea that muggle money is worthless to them. In short? It works as long as we keep an eye on the clever ones."

"So somebody using magic to make large quantities of, um, luxury goods, selling them to muggles, then trying to change the profit to Galleons..."

"-may not find it quite as easy as they would like it to be, yes. I believe also that the Ministry taxes income based on any dealings with the muggle world at a _substantially_ higher rate."

Harry nodded.

* * *

The small, dark-haired boy weighed the bag in his hand thoughtfully. The noise of the bank's main foyer echoed around them, muffled by the intervening stone wall.

"Well. I know the coins we make are charmed half-weight. Which is easier because of the conjured gold content, yes?"

"Yes."

"Yes... but I'm sure this is lighter still for the volume. I mean, even if it contains other coins, made of lighter metals. Is it a standard charm on the bag?"

"Yes. It is very convenient for working in the bank, and we sell money pouches with a similar enchantment. Still. You do see the problem?"

Harry frowned, and hefted the bag again. "If you want to buy something expensive – property, say, or a whole shipment of something, or even just a precious work of craft, then coins are still too heavy and bulky to carry around. That's without even thinking about security."

"Yes. That too." Badluk grinned nastily, showing all his teeth at once. "The one wizard charm every banker knows about is the Switching Spell. It turns pickpocketing and petty theft from a true skill into an idle pastime. Literally half of our complaints come from the fact that we let idiot wizards walk out the doors with bags of money, unprotected against Switching Spells. It's all good fun."

Harry dropped the bag onto the cart, where it jingled. "So..."

"There are alternatives. Direct transfers from vault to vault, if the parties can conveniently agree to meet. Warders and wizard locksmiths, for spellproofed bags. But Gringotts also offers personalised tokens, bank drafts, and various writs of exchange."

"For a – what was it – 'non-negligible' fee?"

Badluk grinned again and tapped the money bags on the cart. "I might, off the record, go so far as to say 'rather substantial'."

* * *

A dirty and haggard figure moved through the gloom of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. In his wake lay a stunned house-elf, two crushed curse dolls, and the incinerated remains of a swarm of Doxies – testament to Auror reflexes that had rusted with disuse, but had not vanished completely.

Sirius Black cursed quietly to himself, stolen wand outstretched, as he edged shakily up the stairs. The blood-warded safe under the dining room cabinets had been empty but for a dozen Galleons, which he had pocketed, a loaf of century-old waybread, which he had hesitantly eaten, and a gem-encrusted pickle fork, which had bitten him when he picked it up. The quick application of a standard healing charm had helped, but some of whatever poison or curse was on the blasted utensil had got through. His hand was aching and swelling up, and from what he could see in the dim light, it was becoming a nasty colour too.

There was something else for him here, though, that he needed to find before he could leave and tend to his wounds. Enough information had filtered down to his cell in Azkaban for Black to know that he was the last male of his line. While normally that wouldn't matter a damn to him, he was going to need every resource at his disposal. And although this was a _distasteful_ resource, it was also a unique one.

There was a time when Black would never have bothered planning ahead. Prison had changed him.

He stepped cautiously into the living room. What he was looking for gleamed back at him from the mantelpiece.

Sirius Black stole across the carpet, picked up the small silver jewellery box, and Apparated far, far away from the house at Number 12.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ I struggled with this chapter a lot, but I hope never to go a month between chapters again.

→ Thanks to all you reviewers out there. I read them all, even if I don't usually do individual replies. Thanks to the reviewer who pointed out that Belgium didn't actually exist until 1830. Corrections are always appreciated!

→ I'll address a few questions here:

→ Transportation is such a fundamental thing in everyone's lives that I think there must have been many diverse forms of magical transportation throughout history. I have only the haziest notion of what a 'cloud-grapple' might be, but it's probably something archaic that nobody uses anymore.

→ Yes, the dwarf doors were a callback to Lord Of The Rings. I tend to use literary references liberally; there are at least five more of them in this chapter, including more Tolkien, Lovecraft, Douglas Adams, and Ursula Vernon.

→ In this fic, Gringotts is secure against a lot of wand magic, but remember that wandless is canonically a very rare art for wizards, and Occlumency and Legilimency rarer still. Hence Malfoy.

→ Once again, it is way too early to start considering 'pairings'. Honestly, guys. If the only reason you're reading this fic is in the hopes of high-quality romantic intrigue, you're going to be pretty disappointed.

→ Pacing is indeed pretty slow, but people have said they like the depth of detail. I suspect (hope?) that by the time this is actually finished, it will either be multiple-books-length or I will have written multiple book-length sequels.


	13. Chapter 13

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 13**

* * *

Lessons with Badluk in practical economics eventually turned into lessons with Sibilig in practical finance, before venturing into the deeper and more mysterious waters of wizarding law.

Together Harry and his foster mother examined the wealth of the Black and Potter families. As he had seen, neither House Black nor House Potter were particularly wealthy. In particular, the ancestral Black Vault housed a lot more in the way of questionably valuable – and just plain questionable – objects than it had liquid assets.

Still, if he were minded to – and if it didn't go against every principle of the Brotherhood – Harry could squander his twin inheritances to live a comfortable life, never having to work a day.

Harry, seated on a sack of silver, fell into thought as he idly polished a gemstone. It had been cut into the shape of an eyeball and enchanted to blink intermittently.

The Black and Potter families must once have had estates worth a certain amount, for the Wizengamot to have granted the title of 'Noble House' upon them. Harry knew a little about it from his strange sessions every few months with the peers Malfoy and Marchbanks. Wealth, 'purity' of blood, and age of the family name were the three factors taken into consideration when creating a Noble House. However, no family title was ever retracted, so many families had lost their fortunes, or were no longer considered 'pureblood', or in some cases had died out completely, and were still Noble Houses.

"And that which they call an 'Ancient And Most Noble House'?" Sibilig prompted. "Pathetically, I might add."

Harry set down the stone and perused his genealogy book, reading aloud from one page. "Any Noble House which has held its title for three hundred years shall be granted the title of Ancient And Most Noble. It follows that nearly all such families were ennobled in the time of the British Wizards' Council, which was only replaced by the bipartite system of Wizengamot and Ministry in 1616. Bipartite?"

"Split into two distinct parts. So, where does the 'most' come from?"

"You mean in 'Ancient And Most Noble House'? I think it happens automatically." Harry had wondered about that. How _did_ the addition of ancientness increase something's nobility, and how far beyond 'noble', exactly, was _most_ noble? He wasn't sure whether the problem was his shaky grip on the English language, or his rather hazy notion of 'nobility'.

Harry flipped through the book. "Marchbanks isn't a Noble name... but Malfoy is. According to this, the Malfoys became Ancient-"

"-and therefore _most_ noble-"

"Yes."

"Yes." Sibilig looked pleased with herself.

"Anyway, they became Ancient only recently – within the last decade. The Blacks and Potters were some of the first to become Ancient. The note says that they're two of the three oldest Noble Houses with members still living."

"Hmmm. Now relate that to the violence-backed wizard government." Sibilig was perched on an antique dresser, a scowl on her face as she looked through a box of ancient yellow newspaper clippings past Potters had decided to save.

Harry, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the Potter family vault, put the book aside for a moment and looked through his sheaf of parchment until he found the notes he wanted.

"Government of Wizarding Britain," he read aloud, translating pieces into Gobbledegook as he went. "Executive body – _managers_ – comprised of the Minister and departmental heads. Legislative function – _law-making_ – spread over the Ministry departments and the Wizengamot, but requires the seal of the Wizengamot. Minister has some limited power to push through laws without Wizengamot approval. The Wizengamot is the judicial – _dispute-resolving_ – branch, but the DMLE can levy fines – _penalties_ – and decide non-serious cases. What is the Dee Em Ell Ee?"

"Department of Magical Law Enforcement. _Guards_, _thieftakers_, _sentinels_."

Harry made an instinctive nod of respect and moved on to the Wizengamot entry.

"There are currently around fifty filled seats in the Wizengamot. A total of 97 voting seats, because that's a 'magical prime'."

He frowned. "_Rocks fall_, I see what Bollotz and Ferenis mean about maths turning up everywhere. Um, let's see. Traditionally presided over by the Chief Warlock and Speaker, with the Minister able to assume rank equal to either of them but with no vote. The actual body is comprised of: seven elected seats, for Honorary Warlocks; seventeen elder seats, for Elders – that's drawn from the oldest Ministry officials; and seventy-one inherited seats, for Warlocks – based on Noble Houses, but with some seats added or struck. Up to three outside Interrogators may be nominated, with no vote. I, uh, have no idea what they are. And there's also a Court Scribe with no vote. So that's a maximum of ...101 possible sitting members. And currently, almost half the inherited seats are empty, due to 'extinction of the lineage'."

Harry frowned as he read the next line. "The typical turnout for a trial, hearing or legislative session is half to two thirds of the extant members. Only _seven_ are required for quorum. Really?"

Sibilig scowled down at a faded picture of the opening of the Hogwarts Express. "You will find that wizards often do not take their responsibilities seriously. If it is not in their own interest to recognise their obligations, they will simply ignore them. Laziness. Greed. Arrogance." The goblin growled deep in her throat. "Now, I believe my actual question was: what of Houses Black and Potter, in the wizard government?"

Harry took up the genealogy book and flipped towards the beginning again. "Of the Claims of Right and Duties of Peerage to which House Black traditionally attends, a fixed seat on the Wizengamot is the most prominent..."

He re-opened the book at a bookmark he kept under 'P'. "Titles and customary rights of the Head of House Potter include Warlock of the Wizengamot... Ah. I see."

Sibilig hopped down and took the book from him. "Badluk discovered such things existed when we first took you in. Manager Ziggiz will unravel some of the titles later, when you are old enough for it to matter," she added, flipping back and forth between the two entries with a half-sneer. "I am not yet convinced that your Lordships will even prove to be a net positive. The problem is that laying claim to many of these traditional roles and 'birthrights' means that you _must_ take up certain others. Many with ridiculous, onerous, or even dangerous duties associated with them. Caution is recommended."

One spindly finger ran slowly down the page. "If Lord Black at any point in the future wishes to exercise his rights to pastorage and acornage over the Threnworth Wold, it is stipulated only that he first become a signatory to the Diet Tacticum. Should Lord Black takes up arms in defence of his fiefdom, he may claim all Crown-granted patents lying dormant in his name, including but not limited to an exclusive patent over the charming of pigs, an exclusive patent over the making of wax figures, and an exclusive patent over the import of sealants for broomsticks. All matters relating to primogeniture in House Black is to be handled by the Paisley Accord, except where any Lord Black or heir apparent has taken the Writ of Leaves or has sold his holdings upon the Crescent of Mornington."

Sibilig gave an elaborate shrug, and turned the page. "The right of Lord Black to gather tax from red-headed women for the purposes of outfitting a fleet with which to combat the Spanish has never been revoked. However, should Lord Black set out to gather such tariffs, the King will no longer by agreement allow Lord Black to renege on his duties in the domain of Regal Accoutrement, nor forgive any lack of attendance upon the Heir to the British Throne."

Harry rocked back on his heels, having just barely grasped the gist of the archaic English. "What is... all of that?"

"Nonsense. _Dangerous_ nonsense." Sibilig sighed, and flipped back to the Potters. "Two in one-fifth of anything Lord Potter holds by right of conquest must be offered up to the King for his unchallenged usage, should Lord Potter claim his proscribed right to expand the Empire's holdings by sword or flame. Ancient lore forbids the passage of Lord Potter through the holdings of Lord Graves, except when demanded by the King or in circumstances held dire by the Seventh Conclave. It goes on, you see."

Sibilig seemed entranced with one paragraph in particular, then looked up again. "Regardless, it would appear you will be working full-time if we ever again have a magical king. After all, Lord Potter will be maintaining his equipment, announcing his presence, inspecting his shipwrights, and leading his court in prayer. And Lord Black, in accordance with ancient custom, will have to duel the Lords Elkins, Smythe, Roper and Potter for position of Court Wizard."

"So I'd have to duel myself?"

"I would worry more about the others," Sibilig said dryly. "Assuming they still exist. My point was this: _no piece of metal shapes itself_. Or, as I have heard one of my human trainees rather endearingly say, 'there ain't no such thing as a free lunch'."

* * *

Sirius Black crouched in the mud and trodden leaves under the sparse, dripping shelter of a tree, and examined the box he had absconded with. He was holding it gingerly in his now crudely-bandaged hand.

This small silver box had probably been the leading cause of Black family member deaths, unless you counted all the myriad varieties of poison available as a single cause. The jewellery box was inscribed with the Black insignia. Inside, there was a small, simple cushion of dusty black velvet. It was completely illegal, of course, but the old families were a law unto themselves.

Besides, what were they going to do? Throw him in jail?

Black sniggered aloud to himself.

Magic lay on the air, so intense he could practically _taste_ it.

He blew dust from the cushion, and tapped his stolen wand against each of the black jasper buttons sewn to it. "Shit, what was the – oh. Yeah, of course. _Toujours Pur_. Durrrr," he muttered. A ridiculously obvious incantation, but it wasn't like a single one of his ancestors had brains worth speaking of.

A silver signet ring appeared silently on the cushion.

Black scooped it up and slipped it onto his finger.

Or at least, tried to. The ring was much too small. After a couple of tries, though, the platinum and silver bands slithered coldly around each other, magically expanding the band until it slipped over his knuckle. The familiar black opal with that ghastly family crest appeared in a thicket of silver and platinum claws, grey points of light dancing deep within the gem.

Black, sitting in the dripping rain, frowned deeply. After racking his ravaged brain, he recalled he had made the young baby Harry his heir. That shouldn't have mattered a jot, since Sirius wasn't dead and had never been rich. But for some reason his young Death Eater brother Regulus had passed the Black title on to _him_, Sirius, when he died. He really had no idea what had brought that about. But...

The ring had been child-sized. It could only have been Harry wearing it, surely.

* * *

Beckflub the Ancient broke off his wheezy comparison of aboveground and belowground soil nutrition, as his student Harry suddenly squawked and clutched his fingers in confusion.

* * *

Sirius Black ran his hands over his gaunt face, trying to think. Cousins Andy and Cissy had children, he remembered. A Malfoy brat? Or, what was her name, Dora? But they were too distantly related to have acquired the ring, surely. Unless someone had found some old magic to cut him out of the running... but then it should have passed to Harry.

Black fell into a dark and decidedly damp dudgeon, which was broken an hour later when the ring vanished from his finger again.

He took out the cushion once more and re-summoned it, almost fumbling his stolen wand and setting his pantsleg on fire in the process. The piece of sandalwood was far longer and whippier than he was used to.

He examined the silver ring carefully. Child-sized once more. It had definitely been harder to summon this time, wand mishaps notwithstanding. It could be that the old family magics that dealt with inheritance were getting suspicious. He didn't even pretend to understand such things.

Or perhaps the person – Harry, it had to be Harry – had put more effort into snatching it back.

After fifteen minutes, it disappeared once more.

Sirius Black lay back against the sodden tree trunk and grinned out into the rain.

* * *

King Gurmsalt scowled around the marble table. Most of the Council of Counters were in attendance. "I'm not sure exactly what policy change you want. We are already prepared to apprehend Black if he makes an appearance within our realm."

Manager Redsteel of the Property Department ran one spindly finger over a vein of gold in the surface in front of her, then seemed to glance around at her fellow managers with milky blind eyes. "We are sure it is him?"

"We have been trying for centuries to unravel the magic of wizard bloodlines," Manager Bogripple of the Department of Information and Veracity said quietly. "It would be an unbelievably lucrative service, as well as quite a weapon, if we had the capability to alter it. If _we_ cannot meddle with the Lordships, no mere wizard can. It must have been Sirius Black."

"Will he make an appearance?"

"He may. The ring would get him into the ancestral vault, even without his key. Of course, he might not know that, in which case he would probably attempt to fill out a request for a replacement key."

"And then we take him, and enact the execution the wizards refuse to give him," Manager Sibilig said firmly.

"Perhaps the trial the wizards refuse to give him, first?" the lawyer Ziggiz said reasonably, and got a scowl in return.

Redsteel went back to tracing the line of gold ore in the table with her finger. "And the danger in sending this ring back and forward?"

Manager Shindig of the International Department leaned forward. "Nibilix is certain he will not be able to place any magic upon it," he rasped. "As is our head human curse-breaker. Tracking, curses, nothing should be able to linger on an artefact like that. We'll check each time regardless, naturally. There is no way to stop it being claimed again?"

Bogripple shrugged one black-clad shoulder. "Not that we have found. Are you familiar with the muggle game of 'ping pong'?"

"No." The chorus was accompanied by stares and frowns.

"No... well, I suspect this back-and-forth will continue until somebody misses. By which I mean, the magic decides one of them is dominant. It is an unusual situation, though, and hence unpredictable. Black was written out of the main line, and is _indeterminately_ legally dead now that he is out of Azkaban. Whereas Harry Potter is only tangentially related to the Blacks by blood. He is also a minor in wizarding law, but has his first majority in his own mind."

"Harry reported the magic seemed to resist him when he summoned it back each time," Badluk said.

"There may well be a psychological element in the enchantment."

"Hmmm."

"We do not have enough information to judge," Bogripple qualified carefully, "but it could be that all Sirius Black would need to do to keep the Black lordship for good would be to change his written will."

"For which he would need to make an appearance at the human Ministry... or here."

"Yes."

"Yes."

* * *

Well, there was no way he was going to Gringotts, Black decided. Not even a regional branch. Normally, the goblins wouldn't have batted an eyelid even if he walked into the bank arm in arm with Lestrange and Avery, singing A Wizard's Staff Has A Knob On The End. Gringotts was infamously neutral. But he had read in the papers he had pilfered that there was a full complement of Gringotts contractors – including _actual goblin guards_ – guarding Harry at all times. And there was a conflict of interest if he ever saw one.

So, no Black vault. His own personal vault would have been seized by now, but he hadn't exactly been wealthy anyway before getting thrown into Azkaban. So the hell with it.

Harry... The paper had reported the Ministry was keeping his foster family secret. Whoever they were, they obviously knew how to get him the lordship ring, which was both a good and bad sign. On the good side of things, it meant he wasn't with Lily's muggle relatives, which was frankly a sickening prospect. He remembered how James had hated them. Black had run out into the wind and rain to track them down when he first thought of it, before turning back to actually _think_ this time. Thinking seemed to be standing him in good stead these days, and he hoped to make a habit of it.

As for it being a bad sign... it probably meant Harry was living with purebloods. But surely it couldn't be a dark family, could it? Dumbledore would never stand for that.

Black got up and paced a muddy rut around his tree for a while. Dumbledore, Dumbledore... He didn't know what to think about the batty old fool any more. He'd sent Sirius to prison without a word, had visited him right before they tried to starve him to death, had sent him suspicious messages telling him to come to Hogwarts and not talk to Moony...

But James had always been Dumbledore's favourite. The Champion of Light would have kept an eye on Prongs' son, especially when You Know Who met his end right there. What was it that they were calling him?

"The Boy Who Lived, yeah?" Black said aloud. Then he flicked water out of his eyes, sneezed, and muttered a warming charm. Time to hunt again soon. And then... what?

Concentrate, concentrate. His mind was slow to re-assemble itself after so long spent in dog form and at the mercy of the Dementors.

Well, Gringotts was out. But the Black ring could get him places. And _things_. There were various dens of the low and the dark he knew of where that family ring could buy him a lot of goodwill. Places where they'd care a lot more about him being an ex-Auror than an Azkaban escapee. Which meant he'd still have to be careful, but...

Black rubbed his finger absently. He decided he'd leave the ring for now, and just summon it when he needed to show it off. They'd got Harry to Gringotts damn fast to summon it back from him. Damn fast.

He rubbed his finger again. There was something... Some hint of a thought had just tiptoed across his Dementor-rusted mind, but it was gone before he could catch it. He stood in the rain for a few minutes, drumming his hand on his leg with frustration, and then slumped back down under the tree.

He should go after Harry. But what could he do if he found him? What could he actually _do_ if, against all the odds, he got through the protection? _Dumbledore_ would surely have a hand in the defences, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. Black was also painfully aware of how it would be taken if he showed up anywhere near Harry Potter.

Black had ignored Dumbledore's advice and sought out Remus to try to convince him, but it seemed he'd skipped the country. That was suspicious, especially with Dumbledore's messages on top of it all.

The escapee picked fretfully at his bandages. He didn't think he could handle it if _Moony_ of all people had turned to the bad too.

No, he decided. He didn't want to think about that.

The kid would be in good hands. He'd promised James, of course, but... with everyone out looking for him... _persona non grata_ and all that... dead man walking... he could... should he...

The threads that formed the tapestry of the future stretched and strained for a moment, then snapped into place.

He would be in good hands, Black repeated to himself with a tinge of guilt. No matter what he'd done to Sirius, Dumbledore would still take care of James and Lily's lad. It was more important to go after the rat.

But how, exactly?

An owl hooted mournfully overhead, causing him to jump a little. Then he transfigured a fallen branch into a stool and sat on it, head in hands. Slowly, Sirius Black began to sketch the outline of a plan.

* * *

The sand in the hourglass ran out. Harry look down at his notepad, the movement making everything soar and swim giddily, and wrote _72_. He turned the hourglass over and looked back up at the hole in the cavern roof where water dribbled down into the mushroom garden.

"I would have thought that distance viewing would be the _first_ thing you looked for on your glasses," said Ratspan. The thin goblin boy was sitting cross-legged beside Harry, companionably whittling a stick.

Harry sighed, counting the number of specks of light that moved in the direction of the air inflow, and trying to keep track of the patterns they made. "It was. I mean, I did. And when I didn't find it, I crossed it off the list."

"Ahh. Shoddy work? Hastiness?" The slightly older goblin shot a smirk at the human, who scowled.

"Yeah. The charm must not have worked properly the first time, because when I tried it again a week ago, it flared like a salamander in coal. So there's just one active set of glyphs left to identify now. And then maybe I'll learn some high-level enchanting, and place the two remaining ones myself."

"That's dark vision, magnification, and distance viewing, yes?" Ratspan plunged the sharpened end of the stick into the sandy ground and picked up another. "Maybe the last is heat-seeing. That would be useful in the forge or in the dark reaches. Or maybe the lenses can store things you see. Or _valuation_ would be nice."

"You would say that. Still want to be an assayer?"

"Maybe. I'm enjoying hunting more and more these days, now I've had my growth spurt."

"Hmmm. Well, it's not heat, anyway. Hold on... _65_." Harry bent his head again. "It's not heat vision, I checked for that. I think it's something quite complex, though."

"I bet it's making you completely bat-guano mad," Ratspan said thoughtfully. "I wouldn't be able to sleep until I knew what it all did, if I were you."

"Rocks fall on you," Harry muttered.

The goblin just laughed.

"You know things I can't work out drive me crazy, you slag-ridden... _jerk_."

"Temper that temper." Ratspan's knife moved swiftly up and down the thin piece of wood. "What if they put something pointless or non-functional in, just to mess with you?"

"Maybe. I don't know what the lesson would be, though."

"Hmmm. I still think you were lucky to get enchanted spectacles at the end of your Threefold Trial. Have you seen the _grisherur_ they gave me for mine?"

Harry frowned at his friend. "Your wyvern-leather Vest of Many Pockets? I don't know if I've ever seen you _not_ wearing it. Weightless, durable, spelled to heighten your metal-sense and save you from drowning? A remarkable piece of craft."

"I'd still rather have glasses."

"You can see perfectly well! And even if the vest _wasn't_ bizarrely suited to your future as a prospector, you should be grateful for it anyway."

"Yes," Ratspan sighed.

"Yes."

They sat in silence for a while.

"What are you actually doing, by the way?"

Harry scribbled some more in his notebook. "Trying to work out the flight patterns of fireflies. Whether there's any underlying rules they follow, see."

"Any luck?"

"No."

"You've been trying for how long?"

"A few days. Since I found my glasses had the distance viewing charm."

Ratspan sighed. "Why do you do the things you do?"

"Because they're interesting," Harry said with a slight frown. "Am I keeping you from some great task? Some work of art requires your attention, yes? I seem to recall _you_ followed _me_ here."

"Well-"

"Argh, rust and sandstone, my family ring's gone _again_. How does it _always_ happen when I wasn't planning on going back up to the vaults?"

Ratspan plucked his sticks from the cavern soil and helped Harry gather his things. "You're weird, Harry Potter," he said flatly. "The things that happen to you are weird, and the things you do only seem to encourage them."

Harry glanced up at the wheeling fireflies once more before curling his hands into the shape that dismissed the far-seeing charm. "Did you know the hobgoblins have a phrase, 'May you have an interesting death'? And it's actually a sort of compliment?"

"I think it suits you."

"Well, thanks."

* * *

In time, Harry tried to confirm many of the things he read in his books, having caught several errors in a wizard tome about the magical properties of metals. He accrued old muggle books on 'natural philosophy' and more recent ones on 'science', all of them finding their place amongst his most prized possessions.

Over the autumn, he grew plants in different light levels. During the winter, he began a project overseen by the potion brewers, and managed to plate a fork with pure gold using only chemicals and lightning charms. Throughout the spring, he tried to confuse a bat by playing with magnets.

Some of his wanderings and mutterings were observed by Brother Filius, who became enthusiastic about a great many of the questions. The wizard accompanied him on a subterranean expedition to the Great Chalk Wall to examine the thousands of strange, crumpled strata and to look for flints and fossils.

Over the summer, Harry got caught up in the basics of healing, and was fascinated by the legislative struggles in the wizarding world over whether some of the relevant enchantments should be classed 'dark magic' or 'light magic'. Trying to fix everything in black-and-white terms was rather quaint, in Harry's opinion. Or at least, the nearest goblin translation of 'quaint', a complex metaphorical phrase which involved decorative cuckoo clocks made by children.

He learned to splint an arm on his tenth birthday, and managed to pick up the most basic goblin-charm for staunching blood flow within a fortnight.

After a few months, his interest was turning back to geology on a whim, but it was then that the _thing_ happened.

* * *

Sirius Black grinned widely. The battle of wills was harder to win every time he summoned the ring back again. Prongs' kid obviously had a lot of clout with the ancestry magics.

He left the dingy hut with his new passport, forged by an old-blood contact who had only been too happy to help the scion of Black. Two quick Apparitions later and he was sauntering into the International Portkey Building of the Spanish ministry.

Time to move on. Australia next, perhaps. Hang around for a year or so, drink a lot of booze, decide whether or not to contact Dumbledore, maybe try to work out if Moony really had gone bad.

Black had found no trace of the rat at all. He was slowly widening his net of contacts, though.

It was a small, magical world. The traitor would have to turn up some time.

* * *

Bellatrix Lestrange turned away from the wall and regarded her ankle - although who knew if she was really seeing it?

It was an ankle which, once upon a time, might have helped to catch a young man's eye.

Now it was attached to a foot that was little more than skin over a brittle cage of bones.

It was also attached to the wall, by means of a heavy iron shackle and chain. The shackle was loose on her, after so many years within the constant entropic aura of the Dementors.

But it was not loose enough for her to slip through. It never would be, no matter how thin she became. Not so long as the bones of her ankle were intact.

Bellatrix Lestrange reached down to grip her leg tightly, and picked up the rock.

* * *

And then there was the _thing_ that happened. It happened on the 31st of October, right at the peak of Minister Bagnold's re-election campaign. She _had_ been a relatively weak contender, almost a decade after the fall of Voldemort.

Within four hours, the annual festivities had been overshadowed by the news that broke. Within eight hours, the ministry had cancelled all staff leave to deal with the influx of complaints and howlers from British witches and wizards. Within twelve hours, Bagnold had withdrawn from the Ministerial running entirely. And within sixteen hours, Gringotts' main branch had closed and locked its doors for an emergency bank holiday.

Respected member of the wizarding upper class, Lord Malfoy, had revealed that Harry Potter was being raised by _goblins_.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ Yes, an update in less than a week. You can thank an extensive backburning of procrastination against the wildfire of work that I _should_ be doing. But mainly it's down to the 500 reviews that people have left! That's some seriously motivational feedback right there. Keep it up!


	14. Chapter 14

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 14**

* * *

The streets of Underfoot bustled like an upturned anthill, if anthills were vast and noisy and lit by a combination of phosphorescence and torchlight. The light glittered off steel every few minutes as another armed guard clattered up the broad, winding road to Gringotts. Knots of goblins aggregated on every street corner to speculate. Their faces covered a spectrum of emotion from fear to anger.

Harry sat slumped in a hollow of bluish-grey rock where the garden met the back wall of his foster-parents' dwelling.

"_It's all my fault_," he insisted. The words were a hiss modulated by Parseltongue and repressed tears.

Prettyroot rolled her eyes, a mannerism she had picked up from the goblins. "_Of course it is not your fault. The goblins who took you into their nest knew what they were doing. They knew better than you, a mere hatchling, and still do. You are upset because your nest is in turmoil. Allow the adult goblins to handle it._"

"_But everyone _hates _me._"

"Harry?"

The boy let his snake companion slither up his sleeve and rubbed his red eyes, avoiding his foster father's face.

"We're going to-" Badluk stopped, then knelt down and carefully touched the boy's cheek. "How did you get this mark?"

Harry sniffed. "Somebody threw a brick at Grimzap's f-father in Diagon Alley. They don't know if he'll wake up again. I- I told him I was _sorry_. It's all my fault!"

Badluk regarded him for a while, expression unreadable, before speaking.

"It may have happened because of you, but only indirectly. Everything affects everything else, you know that." The goblin's thin but strong arms wrapped around his foster son. "You can be sorry that it happened, but you have _nothing_ to apologise for, Harry. These things _do_ happen and will _continue_ to happen. The world continues to spin. Grimzap should not have lashed out at you, although I understand why he did."

Harry looked up, scowling. "It's _my fault_, Badluk. That's what everyone is saying!" His voice broke slightly. "There's going to be a _war_ because of me!"

Badluk mirrored Prettyroot's eye roll exactly. "Everyone is saying that, are they? Everyone. Manager Spinkrod and Pegworts the Locksmith and Cousin Grimrut have sent you messages to that effect, yes? Dukbadden and Old Mother Blagwed have stopped you in the streets to say it, I expect. Your friend Buvolok told you this through the medium of song, and young Shutz through interpretive dance, naturally. This is the case, yes?"

Harry's hands gripped his knees until his knuckles were white. A sudden breeze curled out of nowhere and shook the pale leaves of the herbs in the garden around him.

The goblin's hands shook him gently. "Brother Harry James Potter, listen to me. Do you know what happens to goblins who _do_ start rebellions or wars against wizarddom? Years later, they are lauded as heroes. The fact that there is _not_, in fact, going to be a war because of you should be a _considerable disappointment_ to your childish ego."

Harry didn't seem to appreciate this. His mouth was set in a hard line, and the pebbles in the garden were beginning to quiver and rattle in response to his uncontrolled anger.

His foster father released him, and looked at the boy with an uncharacteristically deep scowl. "Stop that. Loss of control is _weakness_. Seize the hammer by the handle, and stop crushing your thumb with _childish pettiness_. Harry, listen to me. You are a Brother amongst Brothers, and we would fight to the end for you. I fully expect that slights will be made against you that will be recorded in the Scroll of Grudges some day."

Harry's eyes widened slightly at this; the garden calmed around them as the storm of magic he had been gathering died away.

Badluk nodded slightly in approval. "Now. I came to tell you that Sibilig and I will be in meetings for some time as we deal with this problem that has arisen. Do not try to wait up for us. No fires, fights or foreign snakes in the house. There is sliced mushroom and dried bat in the coolstore. If we are not back by tomorrow, you are to stay with Blagwed's brood until one of us comes to find you."

Five minutes later, Badluk was hurrying up the wide paved underground road towards the bank. The steady stream of armed and armoured goblins made way for the manager.

His step faltered slightly when the _thump, thump, thump_ of the drop hammers and blast furnaces began, signalling the opening of the armouries buried far beneath Underfoot. It was a purely precautionary measure. Nobody really knew how bad the current climate might get, and how fast.

* * *

Clawed hands gesticulated wildly, as if conducting the orchestra of stray papers and flying spittle that accompanied the spectacle.

"Do you have even a _passing_ familiarity with the term _sunk costs_?"

"We have to at least _consider_-"

"-if we could be _sure_ he would go a suitable family, but-"

"-without even getting into the question of _security_. Ridiculous! I will _not_ allow it!"

"Sibilig, I do realise that you have become emotionally invested-"

"-could ask Dumbledore, but _he_ has made his position reasonably clear-"

"Just because _Filius_ says-"

"-threat of open rebellion-"

"-Bagnold-"

"-get the boy to speak-"

"-no mere _legal challenge_ would-"

"-Dumbledore-"

"-one _hair_ on his _head_, and-"

"-outright _war_-"

King Gurmsalt scowled and banged his empty coffee mug against the marble table, hard. On the third repeated downstroke, the smiling goblin face with the whimsical inscription _Number One Boss_ shattered into hundreds of pottery shards.

The room quietened, and a dozen pairs of eyes turned to him.

"Bogripple," the elderly goblin said pleasantly, "Perhaps you could remind us of the contingency plans."

The taciturn Manager of the Information and Veracity Department pulled a piece of paper unerringly from the middle of the stack in front of him, and glanced down it as he collected his thoughts. "We always knew that word would spread at some point. We had intended to be the instigators of it, of course, but planning for the _best case_ leads to collapsed tunnels and broken spears."

He dropped the paper back on top of the heap, and stared around the table. His fellow Councillors were fearful and angry. Unduly so, he hoped.

"Allow me to explain something about the society of wizards."

* * *

"Bad business, dad." Bill Weasley gloomily poked his wand at the fire which smouldered on the hearth of the silent Burrow. It spat a thick jet of sparks up the chimney in response.

Arthur Weasley peered curiously at his oldest son. "Did you know about the whole thing, beforehand? From the goblins?"

The young curse-breaker grimaced. "Yeah, I found out almost as soon as Tollens swore me in. But I was under goblin-oath, like everyone else. The only reason we can talk about it now is that it's common knowledge. I haven't actually met the sprog, but I've seen him from a distance. He looked happy enough. Pale, but I suppose he spends all his time below basement level."

Arthur sighed. "Your mother was beside herself when the news broke. She doesn't think the goblins will raise him properly."

Bill frowned, and jabbed at the fire again. "Goblins... they've no love for wizards, it's true. None at all. That's not a society you'd want a lad to grow up in. But I do trust them, in a funny way. I'm dead certain they wouldn't hurt a child... and I don't see them giving him up."

Arthur sipped his tea and glanced at the strange, luminous hands of the kitchen clock. They told him that it was almost midnight and that his twin sons, wherever they were, were 'up to no good'.

"The Ministry has been inundated with owls, but there doesn't seem to have been real trouble over it yet. What do you suppose will happen?"

Bill scratched at the stubble on his chin. "There's been a lot of talk about rebellion. The Dark families are kicking up a stink, of course. People are throwing their support behind this new candidate. Some people're saying they're going to take their gold out of Gringotts, too. But that's mainly down at the pub, and the biggest talkers are also the biggest drinkers. I don't think the bank will lose much business. It's not like they have any competitors."

Arthur's nod was barely visible in the darkened room. "True enough."

"Some of my co-workers have been talking about quitting, but the long-term contractors aren't fazed at all."

Arthur sighed. "It's a pity they pay so well."

"I'm not quitting, dad."

"I know. But your mother- well, never mind. Do the goblins have any news on Black's escape? I haven't heard a whisper for the last-"

He stopped when Bill suddenly sprang to his feet, pulling something from beneath his shirt: a dragon's fang on a thin golden chain. The younger man's empty tea cup clattered across the floor. "Sorry, dad. My buzzer's going off."

* * *

Bogripple leaned forward. "Wizards are _fickle_. They are only concerned with what is in front of them. Veneer over brickwork, floor over foundation. They are _pathetically_ easily distracted."

Disapproval flashed in the goblin's dark eyes. "Malfoy is clever, of course. He timed his announcement perfectly for The Prophet. Our timing will be similarly perfect. The Evening Prophet has only about a seventh of the readership, so although I am having the clerks submit letters to the editor, I think we will stay our main move for a while."

He smiled thinly. "As a bonus, this will also give us cover of darkness. Now, I have already taken the first steps towards damage control. Our few loyal people in the Ministry have already been given the appropriate instructions. And our dozens of disloyal ones have been given the appropriate bribes and threats. It remains..."

A goblin had slipped in through a door at the back of the room and made his way to the table, shrugging an apology for the interruption. "There is a small mob at the main doors. Fifteen to twenty, most of them inebriated. They are not attempting to break in but they are attracting attention."

"Aurors?" Gurmsalt snapped.

"They have not arrived yet."

Bogripple impatiently waved the serving goblin closer. "We have heftier boulders to hew. You. Bring unto us the Scroll Of Grudges. Quickly."

The young goblin went pale. "_Me_? But you don't... you can't mean... _the first edition_?"

Bogripple's face cracked into a deep scowl. For some of the Council, it was the first time they had seen any break in the head spy's calm façade. "Not the first edition, you rock-polishing whelp! The latest volume! Bring it to us! Now!"

The lackey wheeled, and ran off.

Bogripple's fingers flew through his stack of papers, fetching out various documents. "Grimcrok, please have Teuyork assemble his ...usual team. They can requisition whatever they think necessary."

"Will that be enough?"

"No. We'll split them up into several groups for the field, and bolster them with reinforcements if there is an error. Shindig, how many of your human curse-breakers and warders are in the country and not on active contract?"

"Roughly two dozen."

"I want you to contact all of those whose loyalties you are sure of, and bring them in indefinitely. On _double __overtime_. Sibilig, I want your senior trainers in, too. They may have contacts I am unaware of. Director Gurmsalt, you look a little dehydrated. I would ask that you leave the room and spend some time locating yourself a glass of water."

While the other goblins were still reeling in their seats at the idea of paying double overtime, Gurmsalt maintained his level gaze at Bogripple. "Plausible deniability?" he asked.

Bogripple said nothing. The goblin king left the room.

* * *

"Group one. Move out."

The mixed group of humans and goblins finished dividing themselves into pairs. Each of them looked tough, capable, and hardened to the problems of the world. After a moment, they disappeared from the Gringotts foyer with the whiplash crack of side-along Apparition.

Bogripple, cradling a thick book under his arm, turned to the remaining crowd, who gathered closer to listen to him.

"Group two. Teuyork, you're in charge." He handed a scroll to the goblin in question. "Ziffinok with MacHardie, Kripburn with Joyner, Raknulf with Weasley, Harragarg with Bell, Teuyork with Meredith. Any objections, leave now."

The various sorcerers milled about and found their places.

Bogripple paused, looking at faces. "Weasley, how old are you?"

"Uh. Just shy of twenty, sir."

"Switch with Hedges."

A grizzled middle-aged wizard took the redhead's place beside the goblin Raknulf.

"Group two. Move out."

The crowd cleared a space so that the second group could Apparate away. The remaining goblins and wizards seemed to be the younger ones.

"Getting soft in your old age?" Sibilig murmured to her fellow manager.

Bogripple sneered. "He shouldn't be party to this. He is a liability. Nothing more."

"I see." A smirk danced on Sibilig's face.

"It is only that I tend to forget how _slowly_ wizards mature. I'll put him in the last group, yes?"

"Yes."

* * *

"The 'routine' part of this routine ward maintenance call is now over. By the terms of your Magical Oath," Teuyork intoned dully, "You will now close your eyes and cover your ears. Alternatively, you may disregard this order and permanently leave the employ of Gringotts, as well as the world of the living."

The dour goblin waited as the humans all firmly closed their eyes and blocked their ears. The faintly-glowing nets and spiral shapes of strong magical wards hung in the air all around them, held open by magic that arced from staff to staff. Three wands were stuck in the ground next to a cube of dull stone, holding a complex knot of power in place. The wards were twisted around the entire agglomeration in eye-watering ways.

Teuyork stepped carefully across the ward-line, walked up to the large house, and sent a thin black rope snaking up the outer wall. He climbed up after it, becoming just another shadow amidst the strands of ivy.

The goblin sorcerer found the right window, took his short staff from the sling on his back, and silently melted a small hole in the glass. He poked the wooden end through the gap.

"_Sla-vakk gimeirdio_."

Blood splattered across the panes.

* * *

As flames danced through a pub in Hogsmeade, the first screams and shouts broke the silence of the night.

* * *

"_Imperio_."

* * *

Bill Weasley, feeling a tap on his shoulder, hesitantly opened his eyes and brought his hands away from his ears. Dekkdja the goblin sorcerer had returned, bringing somebody else with him. Bill blinked with surprise as he recognised the flamboyantly-robed man standing vacantly in front of them. He appeared to have been drenched in beer; malty foam was dripping out of his blonde hair.

Dekkdja snapped his fingers impatiently to get Bill's attention. "Do you have the Apparition co-ordinates for the Swansea Dragon Sanctuary?"

"Er, yes. Sir." Bill's gaze flickered again for a moment to the bedraggled human peacock. "My brother actually showed me around there just a couple of months ago, before he left for Romania..."

Long fingers dug into his arm. "I do not care, Weasley. Farrington. This smiling blonde idiot has agreed to help us out tonight. Grab him and take us there."

* * *

There were a dozen thick doors between the ready room and the passages of the Unfathomable Maze which blocked the way to Underfoot. Each door opened with a different sign or charm. A dozen others lay between the wide, low-ceilinged ready room and the Gringotts main foyer. The Floo places there were shut off and guarded by goblins with bright steel halberds and crossbows. There was a pair of security trolls held at the ready in an antechamber, too, and the bank's dragon handlers had been placed on alert.

Nobody was _expecting_ trouble of that magnitude, but there was no point not _planning_ for it. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.

The roar and clatter of the war foundries beneath Underfoot were a faint stuttering hum, this close to the surface.

The ready room was the closest thing to neutral ground for Gringotts' goblin and human employees, a dark stone wasteland of low tables and dart boards, where abandoned coffee cups lay like rare white blossoms. Over the past day-and-a-half it had become a sort of hub. It was an eclectic bunch who filled it, and despite the tension in the air, the rather stilted relationship between the humans and Brothers had relaxed just a little. A few foreign diplomats of various shapes and colours were dotted throughout the throng. There were a few members of the ICW whom the goblins had hastily invited, as well as the normal range of foreign goblins and other nonhumans visiting Gringotts.

Harry was sitting under Sibilig's watchful eye and talking to the youngest curse-breaker he had ever seen. The people around him were smiling as much as they were frowning, and none of his goblin peers were here to give him dirty looks, and he was relaxed enough to ask questions of this William Weasley.

Bill grinned at the young boy's unquenchable curiosity, then self-consciously stopped in case he was showing the wrong number of teeth and unintentionally challenging the nearest goblins to a fight to the death, or something. He sipped his coffee, surprised how at ease he was feeling despite all the higher-ups who had accrued in the room. Many of the bank managers were here, and had dragged tables together to make temporary offices.

Harry Potter was entirely unlike what he had expected. In fact, he barely acted like a child at all, from the snake weaving around his arms to the expression on his face as he asked about the goblin-oath... and wizard transportation and why it rained and what Hogwarts was like and _why_ exactly were there patterns in timber that corresponded to how old a tree was?

Bill answered as best he could, sipping coffee as the throng of people murmured around them. Most of the other warders and curse-breakers were also drinking coffee. Some had been up all night, others had been roused from their beds in the early hours. A few bottles of _bakh_ and Butterbeer were being passed around the room, and one senior sorcerer on Manager Bogripple's staff was cooking porridge over a conjured fire. Bogripple himself, sitting in a corner amidst the stacks of paper that two other goblins carried around for him, had a glass of distilled water at his knee. King Gurmsalt, who was speaking quietly to some junior clerks, had expressed a preference for tea boiled black in an old boot.

Everyone who was anyone, and a few more besides, were hanging around the ready room, many with dark rings under their eyes. Most of them had nothing to _do_, but information was trickling _here_ fastest, so here they were. A Greek centaur in a toga stood out the most as he debated with a small man with a fussy moustache who worked for Grimcrok's debt collectors. Attention still tended to flicker, though, towards the talkative child with the dark hair who sat in the middle of things.

Every now and then, a goblin slipped in with a newspaper or letter or spoken message. The goblins were using Bogripple as a weathervane – or in their parlance, a gauge-for-the-temperature-of-iron. As the hours dragged by and the Information Manager seemed to slowly brighten up, the room became more cheerful, bit by bit.

Somebody was whistling like a kettle boiling, one long barely-modulated note. Others argued quietly. In the corner near the door, a toothless old goblin worked on a small marble sculpture of a chariot, her chisel _tink tink tinking_ against the stone. The guards nearby maintained their crossbows.

Dawn came and went, far above, and the world continued to spin.

* * *

Copies of the Daily Prophet appeared almost as soon as it was printed, and one quickly found its way into Harry's hands. He spread it out on the floor so he could manage the large sheets of paper, and looked at the front page.

The wizards were still making much of the fact that he was a ward of the goblins. The picture alongside the story was a photograph of a small group of protesters outside Gringotts, two human Aurors half-heartedly waving them away from the building.

All this, though, had been pushed down below the headline story – a pureblood lord had been brutally murdered in his bed the previous night. A picture of him in Wizengamot robes – _pre_ murder, of course – scowled out from the page.

The story about Harry wasn't continued until a few pages later. When it was, there were a surprising number of quotes from minor celebrities and Ministry workers coming out on the side of the goblins. Harry recognised the journalist's name; it was someone he'd been introduced to last night in this very room. The editorial alongside it was rather nasty, using words like 'abduction' and 'travesty'. Harry was only a little upset; it was basically what he had been brought up to expect from wizardkind.

The first few pages of the paper were filled with dramatic pictures of a building consumed by an inferno, and a naked man running desperately from an angry dragon. The man's hair was on fire and every so often he would shoot sparks wildly from his wand in the general direction of the dragon. Harry read the accompanying story with interest.

"Why would he do that?"

Bill Weasley, reading over his shoulder, looked uncomfortable. "Lockhart? Well... he's apparently done a lot of reckless things, fighting monsters and subduing magical animals and so on. Might be best not to wonder why he was so agreeable when we came to get him."

Harry frowned. "When you came to get him? The newspaper says he got drank and broke into the dragon sanctuary himself."

"It's 'got drunk'," the man corrected. "Well, he certainly looked it, yeah. And yes, we helped. Have you met Malloc? The wizard with the dreadlocks? He took the pictures. Maybe it was the beer, or maybe it was a dare, or maybe Dekkdja paid Lockhart to do it."

"'Beer' is _shedaal_, yes?" Harry asked. "It's a type of _gritakkik_? I mean alcohol?"

"Um. I think so. My Gobbledegook isn't great, yet."

Neither Sibilig nor Badluk drank. Harry opened his mouth to ask more about alcohol and Mr Lockhart and the conjunction of the two, then thought better of it. He'd ask Badluk, later. Hopefully the answer would be more than 'there are factors at play', which was all too often the answer to the most interesting questions.

Bill smiled faintly as the naked man in the photograph stumbled, waved his wand ineffectually at the dragon, then jumped in the air and clutched at a smoking portion of his anatomy.

"It says here he's in a 'critical condition'. What does that mean, exactly?"

"Oh... It means he was pretty badly hurt." Bill's smile faded, and he bit his lip. "After he caught on fire, we had to knock the dragon out. It took almost all of us to subdue it, even with Brown, and he's an _amazing _wizard. I don't think Lockhart really had a chance. Anyway, we made a run for it since the rangers were on their way. They took him to St Mungo's to be treated."

Harry frowned. "Made a run for what?"

"I mean we legged it."

Bill saw the frown deepen. "It means 'escaped'."

"Oh. I see. And St Mungo's is where the healers come from, yes? The ones with the green robes, with their prodding wands?"

"Ha. Yeah."

The frown deepened. "So... it was a diversion. Just for the newspapers."

"Yeah, I think so."

Sibilig leaned over to Harry and murmured something to him in Gobbledegook which Bill didn't catch, but the boy looked less upset afterwards.

"That's pronounced 'diversion', by the way," Bill added, not completely comfortable with the conversation. "The 's' sound changes to more of a 'sh'."

"I read English much better than I speak it," Harry allowed, distractedly shaking his pet rock worm out of one of his sleeves. Her small, scoop-like wings tangled for a moment in the lining before she tumbled into his lap and hissed reproachfully at him.

Bill cleared his throat and reassured him in the goblin tongue. "_It i__ v__ê__ry __ĝôô__d. Pr__ô__bably b__ê__tt__ê__r than __ôthêr§ __y__ôû__r a__ĝê__, m__ô§__t. M__û¢__h b__ê__tt__ê__r than my __ô__wn __ô__th__ê__r lan__ĝû__a__ĝê__. Y__ê§?_"

"Your Gobbledegook is the worst I have ever heard in my life," Harry said solemnly.

* * *

The goblins kept their doors closed all day, but managed draughts, deeds, cheques and small sums by owl post. In the ready room, Manager Grimcrok gloomily calculated their lost business on a pair of abacuses. Manager Flattaks clinked her glass against King Gurmsalt's mug, celebrating the fact that they had avoided a run on the bank. The latest news said that the protesters on the street above had faded way to a handful of malingerers, too.

Bogripple spoke what they were thinking aloud. "Pressure in various quarters seems to have been fairly successful. We will see what happens next."

Beside him, the Head Clerk cracked his knuckles. "Do we know when we will open again?"

King Gurmsalt shook his head wearily, and closed his eyes. "Not today. Hopefully tomorrow."

"I'll stand down the evening clerks." The goblin scuttled off.

There was a brief lull around them. Bogripple watched the ready room with the faintest of smiles. Then he leaned back until his head brushed the stone wall, and recited quietly from memory.

"Perpetrator: Gilderoy Lepus Timothy Lockhart. Grudge: false claims made to the detriment of the Brotherhood. Perpetrator: The owners and financial backers of the Three Broomsticks Pub. Grudge: theft of land, and three hundred and seventy-eight years of unpaid interest. Perpetrator: Morroceros Biela Nott. Grudge: three unpunished murders of Brothers, two verified and one suspected."

He plucked the bookmark from the tome that lay in his lap. "Let red ink strike out their deeds."

* * *

If a war was fought, it was a war of attrition. The opposing side, although they did not know they were fighting, was a loose alliance of the wizarding media and the fickle minds of the public.

It wasn't a dramatic war by any means. Measured in blood, it barely tipped the scales to 'skirmish'.

It wasn't dramatic, but it was effective. A core tenet of the Brotherhood was to _use_ what one had, and the goblins had cunning in spades. Interesting and distracting news continued to fill the newspapers. When the doors were opened to the Aurors and lawyers sent by the Ministry, members of the ICW were present at every meeting. When Gringotts opened for business again, customers found surprisingly reasonable interest being charged on new loans, and pleasantly low bank fees.

A battalion of goblins in gleaming armour discretely lined the walls of the bank.

After several days, an election was called, and wizards turned to the polls to let their upset be heard. Normally the new minister would not be elected for months, and actual control of the government would change over with the new year. As it was, with Bagnold's resignation, the reins were handed to her successor immediately.

Inside Gringotts, many more meetings were held. The managers took to having their meals served there instead of at home.

A half-planned trip to the grand and terrible Seelie in the Spring was postponed. Harry Potter would not be travelling outside the safety of the bank for some time – even if he would actually be more inaccessible somewhere like the Holly Mound.

...If not 'safer', _per se_.

After that indefinite postponement, conversation turned to Lord Lucius Malfoy, who hadn't made a public appearance for several days.

Flattaks quoted aloud from the original newspaper article.

"I still cannot believe this man. 'Fortunately, I had several opportunities to meet him, and my concerns grew each time. A young boy of a Noble family, an icon of the Light in what have been troubled times' … 'inexcusable that he could not even be raised by his own kind. While I hesitate to use the word feral' … 'the animal cunning in his eyes worried me' ... 'imperfect understanding of English' … 'to the outrage of every right-thinking citizen in Wizarding Britain' … 'violence almost inevitably instilled in him by a culture with fewer morals and lesser ideals than our own'..."

She threw down the paper in disgust. Gurmsalt looked calmly across at her. "The man is modestly cunning. We know this, yes."

"His political gain is obvious, assuming Fudge has been groomed as his pawn. His ideological gain is more difficult to quantify," Bogripple said idly, staring at the ceiling. "Perhaps he seriously thought we would be swayed to hand over Harry Potter. Perhaps he intends to mould wizarding perceptions of the 'Boy Who Lived', so that in their eyes he truly becomes a _goblin_."

"Feral," said Grippflag.

"Cunning," suggested Shindig.

"Violent," grinned Badluk.

Gurmsalt scribbled a note down. "Perhaps we will introduce Harry Potter to their society, then, to plane down some of these _terrible_ aspersions."

"He is hardly an archetype of a British wizard," Bogripple warned. "They will see that he is different, and much will be made of those differences. If he is lucky, he will be 'other-worldly'. If he is unlucky, he will be 'contaminated'."

"Pah. He will never be a paragon of normalcy. He will never be what _they_ want him to be. It is better they find out now, before he goes to the Hogwarts school."

There were shrugs all round.

"_I_ want to know how Malfoy found it out."

"Bagnold."

"Perhaps, but I do not think she would have let such detrimental information slip, even if she was somehow unaware the man was backing her main opponent."

"In fact," Gurmsalt said, "I'm not even sure she _knew_ Harry was with us ahead of the news breaking. I am quite sure Dumbledore knew of it, and reasonably sure that Lady Bones did, too. But the rest of the Ministry really had no clue."

The goblin managers considered this.

"Something Harry let slip, then."

"I suspect so," said Pogsheen of the Tax Department, flashing her metal teeth around. "But really, it cannot have been all that difficult to deduce even without talking to him at all. I am actually surprised the secret lasted as long as it did. Returning to the topic of Malfoy's gain..."

"Yes. He must have calculated the benefit and loss as worthwhile."

"He is an idiot wizard, and he would fear us taking his gold."

"Yes."

"Yes. He must have some plan to keep his wealth intact."

Grimcrok, the scarred and one-eared head of the Debt and Recovery Department, checked his notes. "Lucius Malfoy has put his own curses on his family vault, as per the 1888 Meckerley Option. Any nonhuman touching it will turn to dust. Anybody who bypasses that enchantment will find themselves petrified and the vault emptied of air."

The other goblins gaped at Grimcrok.

"He thinks _that_ would stop us?"

Bogripple cleared his throat. "A month ago, he removed many heirlooms from his vaults. At the same time, he substantially increased his investment portfolio, removing a lot of the liquidity we had access to. His deeds remain in our hands, but I hardly think the human Ministry would make him give up his estates should somebody else turn up with those deeds and no record of sale. An accurate summation would be this: the amount of gold he has in our vaults is rather substantial, but at least two-thirds of his actual _wealth_ is safe."

The elderly Wurmspitz tapped his chin thoughtfully. "He did not actually seem _very_ outspoken in that Prophet article. I heard much, much worse in my time working the tills. Perhaps he could be _induced_ to come out more in our favour."

"No. I think that was simply more the wizard's manner than any actual reticence on his part," Bogripple said. "My secretaries have no record of him _ever_ speaking rashly. However, given his _girder-of-iron_ commitment to his pathetic ideologies, I suspect he would not be amenable to blackmail or bribery."

"Fine. So it would be difficult to attack his wealth. What of his person?" Flattaks asked bluntly.

"Speaking hypothetically, of course, I suspect we could penetrate his defences. After all, Gringotts contractors laid the original wards at Malfoy Manor. But I would be surprised if he were even in the country at the moment. Besides, suspicion would fall on us if anything happened to him."

There was silence for a while.

"And, of course, he is our biggest client."

"Yes."

"Yes."

Gurmsalt placed his palms on the table. "This is ridiculous to discuss. We would be breaking the 1865 Accord and numerous others if something 'happened' to him." He cut one of the managers off with a glare. "_Even_ if it were made non-obvious. Seizure of his wealth would be nothing less than an _act of war_. We seem to have staved off one war this week. Attention has moved on from us a little. Why push our luck?"

"So the _offcut_ is untouchable," Sibilig growled.

"Yes," said Bogripple. "For now. But in the future... we might find an _interesting_ way to exact punitive measures."

One by one, the other goblins turned to watch him.

* * *

"Dumbledore! I say, Dumbledore, are you there?"

The Headmaster looked up from his paperwork and stifled a sigh. It had now been exactly a week since the landslide election of Cornelius Fudge to the position of Minister Of Magic, and every single day the new Minister had called on him for help. Usually two or three times.

The problem was that Fudge had gotten the position on the backing of the old Pureblood crowd – Malfoy, Nott and Flint chief amongst them. Many of them were Lords or Ladies, but hardly any of them actually _worked_ for the Ministry. Old blood, old money. Most of them were _gentlemen of leisure_. They did nothing so menial as _work_. And so they were of little practical help to Fudge, who himself had been sequestered in the Department Of Magical Games And Sports for a decade before spending just one year in the Wizengamot. He had originally been elected as a Warlock by the tiny county of Sparking Heath. Now he was in the deep end.

Dumbledore wondered exactly what the man's various secretaries and subordinates _did_ all day. It seemed to be taken as given that only the Head Warlock could be depended on to do or know anything that remotely involved governance.

Dumbledore got up and knelt creakily in front of the fireplace, which was flashing green. With some effort he injected a little twinkle into his eyes, and accepted the fire-call.

"Good day, Cornelius. To what do I owe this latest pleasure?"

"It's Harry Potter."

Dumbledore's eyes became a little more focused. "Oh?"

"Harry Potter and the goblins, Dumbledore! I met with their head chappie this afternoon. Forgot to ask you along when I called this morning. I had that Mockridge fellow from the Goblin Liaison Office translate. I had to keep telling him to talk tough, it's the only way to make them listen. Spoke in English, of course, so they wouldn't understand. Total fiasco, though, the head gob wouldn't do any more than shake hands. And when they let me sit down they gave me the _worst_ tea I've ever drank, tasted like tree bark. Had to spit it out. They went on and on about the law this and their rights that, gabbling faster than Mockridge could translate, and didn't take kindly to it when I told them that the law can be _changed_! I tell you, I came in hoping to have a proper dialogue about returning Harry Potter to a real home as soon as possible, and by the end of it one of the bleeders had drawn an axe on me!"

Dumbledore fought a nearly overwhelming urge to drag his hand wearily down his face.

"Absolutely Mockridge's fault, of course," Fudge continued. "I'm thinking of replacing him. That Cresswell chap is meant to be a rising star. You recommended him originally, didn't you? Anyway, what I need is your help negotiating, Dumbledore. You speak their mumbo-jumbo language, right?"

The Headmaster's wand hand twitched, and he paused before answering.

"I'm quite fluent in Gobbledegook, yes, Cornelius."

"Well you can come with me next time, I hope. I need your support in the Wizengamot, too. Nobody wants another goblin rebellion, but we have to get the Boy Who Lived out of there! I campaigned on that, of course, but it's really the principle of the thing!"

Dumbledore nodded gravely. "It will certainly be good to get him back to his family."

The jowled head in the fireplace stared back at him blankly. "I thought he was the last of the Potters."

"Oh, quite so. I meant his family on his mother's side," Dumbledore explained. "The Dursleys. They're not magical, but-"

"Muggles? Muggles, Dumbledore! The Boy Who Lived, brought up by muggles? Oh, no, there's no way the public would like that! If it weren't for them being family, that'd be no better than the goblins, really! No, indeed. I've asked around, and several reputable old families have already offered to sponsor the boy. Jolly good of them."

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed a fraction. He had more than an inkling of exactly which families might have offered to take in Harry Potter. He could even picture the extremely earnest looks they would have had on their faces when they spoke to Fudge.

"Well, you must be careful not to rush into something like this, Minister," Dumbledore said, rapidly changing tack. "You excelled in History Of Magic, if I recall. You must know of the consequences – the sheer _casualties_ – when goblins rebel. I'm afraid I must be frank. It would be political suicide if you got yourself drawn into that sort of situation."

Fudge's face went from preening to pale in a matter of seconds. "B-but that's why I need your support, Dumbledore! To keep the Wizengamot in line – if we present a united front, they'll _have_ to give him back, and we can put him where he belongs..."

"I would advise you to let things settle, Cornelius. After all, he'll be at Hogwarts in a year, so-"

"Dash it all, Dumbledore, I won't last a _fortnight_ if I don't get him back, let alone a full term! Lucius was telling me there's rioting in the streets about it! Everybody's up in arms, from what I've heard!" Fudge looked uncertain for just a moment. "I'll think about what we can do, but I expect you to help us stand strong. Full session on Tuesday, Dumbledore, and I need a topic for a speech then. Leading issue of the day and all that. Can't stop for tea, sorry, I'd really better get going. Still have a pardon and a stack of bylaws to sign. Good evening!"

The sickly green bowler hat floated in the fireplace for a few seconds before disappearing after its owner.

_Well, that was as fruitful as ever_, Dumbledore thought. Fudge seemed to swing wildly between complete obstinacy and complete pliability. In fact, 'I'll think about what we can do' was actually the best result Dumbledore had achieved so far when the man was being stubborn.

Merlin knew how he had managed to get elected. Maybe he talked so much that people had stopped listening to what he actually said.

Albus Dumbledore stood wearily, and summoned his travelling cloak. He had a king to visit.

* * *

Bellatrix Lestrange hobbled outside the prison on one foot that was not so much _broken_ as _mangled_. Her eyes went to the grey skies and black seas that skirted the island. Laughter caught in her throat and faded. She could have stared at that sight for days, but she knew she only had an hour at most before her absence would be noted by the unsleeping guards.

It was a short crawl down the boulder-strewn slope to the huge, rough waters of the North Sea. The rocks were knife-sharp where they had shattered against each other. Her arms and legs were bleeding heavily before she was halfway to the shore. She didn't notice.

In summer, the tumultuous sea could be described as 'freezing'. Now, with midwinter approaching, 'deadly' would be more apt. If it wasn't for the wave movement and the salt, Azkaban would have been surrounded by a mat of solid ice. A human in the peak of fitness would not survive long in that water in winter. Someone suffering from Dementor exposure, and with only one good foot? The idea was laughable.

This was of no concern to Bellatrix.

She struggled to an upright position against a slab of stone. The weight on her shattered ankle caused several shards of bone to break through her skin, but she barely even noticed. The spell-resistant shackles gone, she felt the tug of her magic for the first time in years.

She might not have her wand, her sanity, her health, or a single happy memory. But as the most trusted lieutenant of the Dark Lord, there had been nobody better for him to teach one very special power.

Bellatrix Lestrange spread her arms and flew.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ Thanks for all your reviews. They were instrumental in avoiding various plot pitfalls when I was writing this chapter. Even pointing out spelling errors is helpful.

→ For those of you keen to get into the Hogwarts years, they're drawing close now. There'll probably be just a few more vignettes of Harry with the goblins first.


	15. Chapter 15

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 15**

* * *

The wizard's comet-spangled robes flapped at his heels as he exited, and there followed a deep silence.

"What I like about Dumbledore," Badluk said eventually, "Is that he at least has the _capability_ to be candid. That said, it still comes as a refreshing surprise when he does choose to speak plainly."

Only Gurmsalt, Bogripple and Badluk had been present for the meeting. Badluk often wondered whether the dark-eyed Bogripple ever slept.

"Duplicitous, yes, and utterly self-serving, yes. But at least he is upfront with us about his duplicity and his dedication to his own goals. I have no doubt he is considerably less open in his political dealings amongst his own kind."

The other two goblins nodded.

"What _I_ like about Albus Dumbledore," King Gurmsalt said, "is that he would prefer that Harry Potter live with _us_ than with his closest magical relatives through the Black line, House Malfoy. I like this very much, because this is a preference I myself share."

"I assume that underscored his actions in originally leaving Harry with his muggle relatives," Badluk said.

Manager Bogripple said nothing for a while, and then excused himself. "I believe I need to check what news could be of such import that it forced Dumbledore to leave us abruptly in the middle of a meeting _he_ asked for."

* * *

Black folded the newspaper in a swift motion, his face wrinkling into a frown. It was a rather _different_ face than the one the world had traditionally associated with Azkaban escapee, Sirius Black. It was a little fuller, a little neater. It had a few more lines, but less hollow eyes and a more pensive expression. A change in eye colour and the appearance of a braided blonde beard to match his new hairstyle were also prominent amongst the changes that had been made over the last few months.

Eventually his expression changed again and he let out a short bark of nervous laughter. Goblins, huh? Funny how his mind kept turning back to that. His crazy cousin Bella was a more pressing concern, but... huh. Goblins.

Well, there was only one way he could go up against a tough mob like that. Judging by a few carefully-worded quotes, the old man seemed to have come out neutral in the shouting match that the issue had become, but still. Time to take a chance with his trust, and write back to Dumbledore.

* * *

"Did you see those phosphorescent mangroves? We're almost in the Monsaic Tunnels now," Ratspan said warningly from behind Harry. "We should turn back and take one of the loop paths."

Harry sneered, hastening his stride. In one hand he gripped his staff, and the other was held stiffly on the pommel of the long knife thrust through his belt. "What's wrong with the Monsaic Tunnels?"

His goblin companion suddenly grabbed him by the collar and spun him around. "Harry! What is _wrong_ with you today? Eat a bad bug or something?"

A fat spark leaped from the end of Harry's white oak staff and grounded itself on the cavern floor. The human boy looked shocked for a moment, before his scowl returned and he looked back up at his friend.

"_What._ What's wrong with _you_?"

"Harry. We can't hunt in _there_."

Harry tried to shake him off, frowning. "Because the caverns exist in a precious state of untouched nature, yes?"

Ratspan dug in his heels, refusing to release his grip. "No. Because we'll die."

"Oh, come _on_. What are you afraid of?"

"Hodags, grippers, giant cave crocodiles, knids, shambling mounds, flocks of firebats, and ypotryll," the goblin boy promptly rattled off. "Death bottles, ophiotauruses, mandrakes bigger than I am, questing beasts, cavern wyverns, subterranean swampuses, joint snakes-"

"We'd be safe with joint snakes," Harry interjected. He relaxed very slightly, and let go of his staff, which stayed balanced upright on the rough rock floor. "And I'd like a chance to try to talk to a wyvern, just to confirm that Parseltongue doesn't work on them."

Ratspan stared at him for a moment, then released his companion's collar and continued. "...giant squonks, clawed cave tortoises, bloodflowers, deathgleaners, pretty much everything else with 'death' _right there in its name_, hidebehinds, ilithids, slithersuckers-"

Harry folded his arms. "Half of these things are extinct, you realise."

"_No_, you mean that half of these things have not _recently been seen by anyone who has then lived to tell of it_."

"You're getting hysterical."

"I'm not going in the Monsaic Tunnels," Ratspan said flatly.

Harry shrugged, picked up his staff again, and made to turn back in the direction they had been heading. "Fine."

"And _neither are you_. Come on, Harry, we'll take the Red Flint Loop, come out near Boulderclaw, and see what we can bag on the way back." The goblin poked him in the side with the butt of his spear.

Harry bared his teeth, still scowling, but Ratspan stared him down.

"Fine," he repeated eventually.

They turned, and walked back in silence for a while.

"So... this latest wizard business is causing you trouble, yes?" the goblin asked cautiously.

Harry missed a step, then kept walking. His fist was clenched tightly around his staff. "What do you mean?"

Ratspan's orange eyes flickered across to him. "The wizards above kick up a rockfall about you living here, that dark witch escapes, possibly to hunt you down... then you apparently show a real interest in hunting for the first time, and you're increasingly reckless about it. It's not hard to see that you're stressed, afraid, and lashing out."

Harry sneered, but said nothing.

After a few minutes, he admitted, "Okay, maybe. People are _terrified_ of this Bellatrix Lestrange. It's far worse than when Black escaped. Even Badluk was talking about keeping me below the bank for a while, and maybe even cancelling that thing they're organising for the newspapers. I'm just nervous, alright?"

The goblin shot him an odd look. "You're safer in Underfoot than anywhere. I just don't think that placing yourself in danger by trying to stalk the Monsaic Tunnels is a reasonable response to the security risk."

"At least it's a productive use of my time," Harry grumbled.

"You don't even like red meat. Your teeth are too blunt to handle it."

"Yes I do and no they're not. What are you, my guardian?"

"If I was, I'd have beat the stupid out of you by now."

"Pah. You couldn't beat pig iron with a troll to help you hammer."

"You're the troll."

"Ooh, witty. You're just jealous that you don't have a dark witch after you. What are you grinning at, anyway?"

"Nothing. You- _look out_!"

"What?" Harry turned, and the creature bore him to the ground with a painful crash.

* * *

In Diagon Alley, half a mile above, shoppers wrapped their cloaks about them and hurried away from the circuitously patrolling Aurors. Each red-robed trio shepherded a shackled Dementor between them, in case of Lestrange sightings.

The word on the frightened lips of the public was "attacks", and the mood was one of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Bellatrix Lestrange had a Reputation, with a capital R. Attacks were her speciality; attacks of any sort. She could not be said to be big on anything else.

Revelations about Harry Potter's home life had been well and truly overshadowed: yesterday's news.

Bill Weasley stuffed his folded newspaper into his pocket and turned away from the Wanted posters in the shop window. The notices showed mug shot after mug shot of an insane Lestrange, "mass murderer", each cackling in silent synchrony. The vista of black-and-white madness was broken only by the occasional offer of reward for news of one Sirius Black, "accomplice". The default assumption was that he helped his fellow Death Eater escape.

Bill hurried towards the Leaky Cauldron, skirting nervously around the pacing Dementors and the red-robed magic users metaphorically nipping at their undead heels.

Seeing them up close was ...not pleasant.

There was a new contract on the Gringotts books to test the new wards on Azkaban prison. Well-paid, but somehow, he didn't feel like he'd be joining that team.

* * *

Harry blinked away the flashing lights, and gasped for breath as some monstrous creature scrabbled at his chest, eerily silent in its attack.

"Harry! Move, you-"

He rolled clumsily aside, catching a glimpse of a glittering grey surface and collecting a powerful kick in the ribs for his trouble. Harry managed to scramble upright as warm blood splashed across his wrist.

He had no idea what had attacked them; the tunnel was barely lit by the faint luminescence of distant mushrooms. Harry held his staff carefully in front of him as he scrabbled for his glasses. When he managed to replace them on his nose, the darksight charm kicked in, and he saw a large, mottled grey shape lying on its side on the tunnel floor, kicking its legs fitfully. It blended in perfectly with the cavern floor.

Ratspan's spear was buried in the creature's neck. The goblin boy was bending over, hands on his thighs, panting heavily.

After checking his companion wasn't wounded, Harry crouched down beside the dying animal. He rubbed absently at his left side, where its foot had connected. That was probably going to bruise, despite the leather.

"Cavern chameleon. I've heard about these." Harry stared into the bulbous yellow eyes of the creature as it bled out.

"Hoggle the Earthy has one as a pet," Ratspan gasped, slumping to the ground. "Nowhere near as big. Eats bugs. Possibly people too. Have to ask him later."

The human boy cautiously reached out towards the lizard, which was larger than he was, and lifted one of its feet. When he looked at it against the dim light from distant tunnel end, it immediately took on a greenish colour.

There was the metallic noise of Ratspan drawing his knife, practical as ever. "We'll each haul back a haunch and a section of tail. And I'll take the skin, thank you. Katlok will be able to do something with it. She's thinking of being a leatherworker, or maybe an armourer."

"Shutz's sister? Tailoring does seem to run in their family." Harry turned on the magnification charm on his glasses and looked at the giant chameleon's toes in fascination. Then he recognised the tone of his friend's voice. "Ohhhh. You like her, yes?"

"No."

"Yeah, you like her."

"She's just a really good friend."

"Sure." Harry reluctantly let go of the creature's limb, and drew his own knife to help with the butchering – a tedious process made only slightly faster by goblin-charms. "Can I've just a bit of the skin, though? Off the feet, perhaps?"

"Yeah, sure. Where was your snake, anyway?" Ratstpan asked. "She usually keeps an eye out for nonsense like this."

"Prettyroot decided to stay home."

"Why?"

Harry finally flashed a small grin, the first of the morning. "She didn't want to go outside with me when I was 'like an avalanche'."

"Mother-rusting snake is smarter than you are."

* * *

Five goblins sat in an office, drinking, smoking or standing patiently, depending on their preference.

"This Lestrange business could not have come at a worse time, could it?" Gurmsalt grumbled. "There's been a nest of spider trolls sighted on the west side of Outer Underfoot, just next to Cutmythroat Ravine."

Shindig of the International Department raised an eyebrow. "Why is that a problem? Send in the guards, and be sure to cut off their heads so they don't regenerate."

"Jeervis has submitted a request to the Council that he be allowed to capture them and see if they can be trained to serve."

"You mean Jeervis the Foolhardy?"

"Do you know any other Jeervis who would want to catch a potentially deadly, relatively unheard-of species, and train them as butlers?"

"Ah."

King Gurmsalt got up from his seat and poked moodily at the fire. "Are our security concerns all addressed, then?"

Spinkrod, never one to waste a word, nodded.

"Redsteel, Spinkrod and I have spoken to all the guards individually," Bogripple added.

"Where is Redsteel, anyway? Dumbledore remembered to ask after her."

"Still with Commander Flaghaggard."

"Hmmm."

Gurmsalt turned to the fifth goblin in the room, who tamped a pinch of valley herb into his pipe and nodded back. "Sibilig has met with the Head Warder, too," Badluk said. "I think all is as locked down as it could be. There is no whisper of the Lestrange witch, though. Or Black."

"I find I must agree with you: it is a refreshing surprise when Dumbledore is open with us. In fact, I confess I found it quite entertaining to hear him lay out why he thought the escapee Black is innocent, and how he could have come to be imprisoned in the first place. On the other hand, I am utterly unastonished to hear that this new Minister is refusing to listen about it. One felon helping another break out, despite the government's best efforts, is so much a better _story_ than two unrelated escapes from the inescapable prison."

"People do like to think in stories," Bogripple muttered.

"Fudge appears to be keeping up the fine traditions of every Minister Of One Narrow Area Of Magic to date," Badluk said dryly. "What did Dumbledore call him? A cat's paw for the old blood, yes?"

"Yes."

"If Dumbledore is so very, very reliable and trustworthy, then what of this 'special business' of his?" Shindig asked, an extra frown in his cracked voice.

"His exact words were that he felt it the right time to place 'something of great importance', wink implied, in a high-security vault. It cannot be all _that_ important, or he would have paid five times as much for the highest security, not the seventh level. It is only meant to be there a short time, I believe."

"The 'right time', yes? That time being, following the escape of a dangerous dark witch?"

Bogripple shrugged.

"Is there any chance it is _not_ some form of trap?" Shindig pressed.

"No."

"What is this 'something of great importance', then? And what is it to the Lestrange woman?"

"Obviously we would not dare presume to investigate what a client chooses to place in a vault they have hired," Bogripple said dryly, sliding a piece of parchment across the table to his fellow Manager, who read it with interest.

"Hmmm. Extra precautions may be in order, yes?"

"Yes. We are low on staff, of course."

Gurmsalt tapped his fingers irritably against the polished stone side of the fireplace. "How many of our humans have resigned now, Shindig?"

The goblin who managed the curse-breakers shrugged. "Nine at various levels. None of those from Teuyork's normal group, of course, but some of the others who helped. A dozen or so of the lessers left because they thought the boy _should_ have been 'given back', but I don't think we are counting idiots in our tallies, yes? Lackeys and clerks' aides, mainly."

"Did any ask to have the goblin-oath released in exchange for Obliviation?" Badluk asked with interest.

"Only one. The others have kept their tongues locked." Shindig shrugged. "Not surprising, really."

Director Gurmsalt leaned back against the wall with a sigh. "We've lost enough that we will have to hold off on purchasing one of the new Cairo dig sites. We no longer have the staff surplus to send over."

"A great pity," Shindig said, "but a small cost in the long run. I will contact Gringotts Melbourne and the Toronto Gringotts-Bollards Collective. They always seem to have spare wizards to recruit from. Something in the water, I think."

"How many years of actual experience did we lose, altogether?"

Shindig scowled in thought. "Close to a hundred."

"Worth it," Bogripple said immediately. "My agents are of the opinion that if it weren't for this Bellatrix Lestrange business, Fudge would probably have invaded Gringotts in search of the boy."

"Nobody is that stupid, surely."

"How did he complete his campaign without blundering?"

"Excellent coaching, I assume. Malfoy..."

"Yes." Shindig knocked back the last dregs of oak-gall coffee in his chipped mug. "The Marchbanks-Malfoy-Mungo's arrangement is off, I take it?"

"Of course. Besides, the deal was made with Bagnold, and I hear that she has left the country."

Gurmsalt shrugged. "Let her go. She is nothing."

* * *

"Fascinating," Filius Flitwick muttered, leaning a little closer to the dragon.

Gitzmado the beast handler shook the set of clankers again in one thickly-leather-wrapped hand. "A mixture of positive and negative reinforcements," he said, grinning ferally as the old land-drake cowered.

"What's the negative reinforcement?" Harry asked, standing on the balls of his feet and ready to run at a moment's notice.

"Whippin's."

The dragon lowered its head meekly to the ground and splayed its talons over its face. Filius slowly reached out until he was stroking its cartilaginous whiskers.

Harry examined the hammer-springs on the second set of clankers. "And the positive reinforcement?"

"Gentler whippin's."

The dragon whined piteously. Harry frowned.

"Don't trust that'un," Gitzmado cautioned. "He's liable to fight back when he's cornered. Lost four fingers before I learned that!"

The goblin's cackling laughter rang out in the depths of Gringotts.

* * *

Since the beetle was out of the basket, Gringotts held a minor function – something between a press conference and a soiree – which the bank was seldom wont to do. There was little doubt that the Boy Who Lived making an appearance was central to the affair.

Harry comported himself well, meeting someone he recognised as a Gringotts-friendly reporter, as well as the acerbic and conservative Head Editor of the _Daily Prophet_. A few other journalists from international news and minor magazines vied constantly for his attention, while the observers from the ICW were a little more reserved. Harry shook many hands over the course of the evening, including one belonging to an imposing figure who was introduced to him as Tiberius Ogden. Another, named Commander Bones, looked him up and down and told him that the combined weight of the Howlers she'd had about him would outweigh the boy himself.

The guest list was short, and security was tight, as might be expected. The goblins intercepted many gatecrashers trying to sneak, Apparate or, in one case, portkey in. These unfortunates were redirected by the wards to the effluent pits beneath the dragon cages.

At one point, Brother Filius gave a disapproving frown when a white-bearded wizard manifested himself for a moment before being caught and flung back into the ether. The goblin sorcerers in charge of the security wards later reported shakily that Albus Dumbledore had managed to tear himself free of the enchantments and Apparate away again before being dropped into the dragon muck.

The evening progressed without much further interruption. Bill Weasley earned a commendation for personally tackling somebody in a too-short invisibility cloak who managed to sneak past the guards during the distraction, having spotted the soles of the intruder's feet.

More of Gringotts' senior human employees continued to drift around the marble floor, keeping an eye out for unsavoury elements. Conversation drifted between topics such as the Lestrange escape, immigration, the Centaurian Question, Lockhart's recovery, the colours that best matched Harry's eyes (the driving obsession of one particularly inane magazine journalist), and the Dementor patrols.

It was an off-hand comment made by one of the guests about "soul-sucking fiends" that reminded Harry of something he had been meaning to investigate.

* * *

A small hand traced a line of lettering on a dusty page in a dusty book from a dusty shelf. The lettering itself was not dusty, but tried its best to give the impression that it was.

Sibilig, who was tending to the growth of a particularly virulent-coloured fungus in a terracotta pot on the windowsill, frowned at the boy. "Still caught up in this 'soul' nonsense? Dementors kill. Nobody seems to know how."

Harry stopped trying to translate the archaic English, and put down the book. "Everything wizards write about the field takes their _soul_ as a given, and then rambles on from there. How do they _know_ that there is a defining essence which makes people themselves? That it is not just the brain? The muggles have shown that when the brain is damaged, people change. What does a 'soul' actually explain? Why do people think mysticism is a good answer to anything? What happened to-" he slipped into English – "not multiplying entities unnecessarily?"

Harry's foster mother gave an elaborate shrug. "Wizards do not listen to their nonmagical brethren, perhaps out of fear that they will discover just how many things they do not know. Or perhaps they just do not believe that the brain is the locus of personality. Most people are not rational, most of the time, and humans seem to believe whatever they can get away with."

Sibilig pinched off a filament of fungus that was beginning to wither.

Harry sighed. He knew that goblins didn't believe anything survived death, but that seemed like something you'd _really want to be sure of_ one way or the other – with Dementors wandering around, as well as one or possibly two escaped murderers, and Hogwarts only months away.

He pointed at a book of ebon from the pile around him. "Claims to be about soul magic, is about blood." He pointed at another, with a yellow sign upon it. "Claims to be about soul magic, is about the mind." Another, a dusty desert tome. "Claims to be about soul magic, is about inherited genetic traits, as far as I can make out."

Sibilig replaced the plant pot, and pointed to the shelf where Harry kept his – disapproving scowl – wizarding books. "Claims to be about 'Defence Against the Dark Arts', is about 'Defence Against the Dark Arts'. Brother Filius says you are to read _all_ of it. Perhaps start from there, and worry about the rest later?"

Harry sighed, and went to fetch the book down.

* * *

Gitztick peered around the doorframe. "Coming fishing, Harry?"

"Sorry," he said, glancing up at her as he tugged on his other boot. "I've things planned already."

"Oh? Where are you headed today?"

"The Upper Reaches, for fossil-hunting."

"Why don't you just go explore the Bone Forest? There are lots there, and it's much closer."

Harry stood up, and threw a sack of straw over his shoulder. "I want to take some home and study them, and also compare the ones I find in the Upper Reaches to the ones in the Bone Forest."

"To see if they're different?"

"Well. Yeah, but the _really_ interesting thing would be if they were the same!"

The goblin girl shook her head. "Whatever. We'll be in the Blue Moon Spring if you change your mind."

* * *

"_Rocks fall_ on it, _boulders crush_ it, mountains of slag, _gravel and brimstone_." Harry continued to swear as his finger traced the text in the scroll, head shaking gloomily with every line.

Ratspan, who had just wandered into the cavern clearing, shouldered his spear and looked at the human boy. Then he glanced at Brother Filius sitting on a stack of rocks in the distance, at the different-sized discs of iron floating in the air at various heights, and then back at his friend.

"Not working as it's meant to?" the goblin hazarded.

"It's working _exactly_ as the text implies it should," Harry snarled.

There was a moment of silence.

"That's a bad thing," the human boy elucidated.

The next moment of silence was broken by one of the weights suddenly dropping out of the air. It clattered a short distance across the cavern floor.

"He was hoping to have the privilege of needing to unlearn what he has learned," Filius said cheerfully.

Harry shook the scroll fitfully, then threw it to the ground. "_Nothing_ Bashiok the Somewhat Lucid says about levitation charms makes sense if you think about it for more than three seconds. _Nothing_. They didn't even have a theory of gravity when he wrote this! Yet the spells work just like he describes. The weights reach some critical point and just _snap_ out of the air, they don't descend as the spell slowly bleeds power – which it clearly _does_!"

Harry paced back and forth, jabbing his wand in the direction of the fallen iron discs.

"There's no correlation between the weight used, the distance you lift them, and how long the spell lasts! Or rather, there _is_, but it's not internally consistent! That's even worse! And if you combine a feather-weight spell, it doesn't extend the levitation charm! It lasts _half_ as long!"

Ratspan turned to Brother Filius. "Has he had his nutrient potion today? I think maybe the healers put something in it to calm him down."

The half-goblin professor shook his head. "It _was_ an interesting alternative idea he came up with. But Bashiok the Somewhat Lucid is simply the recognised authority on the matter, and he says that size differences do not effect the duration of charm unless they move the object into a different one of his seven categories."

Harry scowled. "Seven _arbitrary_ categories. I don't – I still don't believe it."

"And that is why you fail."

"Size _should_ matter! Gravity is at work all around us – here, between you, me, that idiot with the spear, the rock, everywhere, yes? Even between the land and the iron weights. Magic is a discrete force, its power is bound, a known quantity. How can it treat a one-handspan disc exactly the same as a three-handspan disc?"

"Well," Ratspan said, ignoring this, "I was just told to tell you that lunch is going to be late today. I'll leave you to it, then."

Harry waved his wand, and the remainder of the weights fell.

Flitwick hopped off his perch and ambled over. "It's still good that you're testing things, though. This is how major discoveries are made. There is _always_ a why, _always_ something more to learn today. _Never_ clear your mind of questions."

"I know, I know."

"And with a little practise, you will be able to levitate the weights yourself in future experiments," the wizard chirped.

"I hope so. I just wish I hadn't bothered wasting my time on all that maths, since I didn't even get a good result."

Filius looked at him curiously. "A negative result is still a result, surely. So, you're persevering with maths even though it's hard? Or _because_ it's hard, perhaps?"

Harry snorted in disgust. "Because it's _useful_."

* * *

It started off as a day like any other.

Harry woke up, put on his clothes and charmed glasses, drank the potion that replaced natural sunlight in his day-to-day life, and had cave pear jam on yellowcap wafers for breakfast. Then he swept the floor, let Prettyroot out into the garden, and headed to the language library. It was mid-July, and he would be going on a visit to the estuarine Mer in a week, staying until just before his eleventh birthday. He had spent a lot of the last week practising his swimming.

After a morning of wrestling with declensions of Mermish nouns, Harry walked up the winding thoroughfare to Gringotts, to help with the pruning of a Doppelgänger Fig tree in one of the inner courtyards. Recently, the bank layout had been changed so that everyone passing through the seventh level of the vaults had to stop at a checkpoint above the Unfathomable Maze. A dozen goblin guards with probity probes and aura-piercing crossbows were posted there, watching the cart traffic.

Harry said hello to his foster aunt Talliapa, and had just been waved through to the line of parked mine carts near the rails leading up into the six-hundreds, when an ear-bursting klaxon pierced the air and echoed from the deeps.

The bank had been breached.

The alarms were coming from beneath.

* * *

The noise of a security ward being tripped was met with a brief oath whispered in a chilling voice. Moments later, the cloistered darkness of the great Below was torn apart by flashes of light. Even as dead feet began to shuffle, something insubstantial spiralled up from the unbridled gloom, activating a delayed spell placed in a certain waterfall.

The deathly Unsdugu, lurching one by one from the chasms and passageways of the Unfathomable Maze, came to an abrupt halt when they encountered a wall of magical smoke in which half-formed faces screamed in pain. A mine cart sped by them in a metallic blur, bending out of shape in its attempts to fling itself from the rails. In its wake, the body of a dragon flopped from a niche in the cavern wall. The corpse swayed limply at the ends of its chains as the last light flickered out of its eyes.

Less than a minute later, in the deepest region of the Below, the mine cart slowed. It was no longer running on the twisted tracks, but floating above them on a corona of shadows. The small wagon slowed, stopped, and tilted over. Clawed, skeletal hands immediately reached up from the gravelly dirt to tear the passengers apart, the guardians of the Maze waking in response to the alarms.

With a single spoken word, the bones withered, and with just one more, they were dust on the wind. Doorways melted into a grotesque shape ahead of two moving figures; the Dead Sea Runes that adorned the ceilings flared and died as a sickly green tide of light washed inexorably over them.

Far above, the main staircase behind the raging torrent of the Thief's Downfall was torn and shaken by fiery serpents. Around it, armoured goblins wrestled with the gibbering wraiths of their own fears brought to life.

At the end of a winding passageway on the eighth and deepest level of Gringotts, human footsteps clattered against bare rock. Fingers pressed against a vault door that was true-forged from adamant and stranger metals. The guardian spirits of a dozen imp-locks instantly fled. The blue metal melted away into the rock face, and a shape darted into the room, to return mere seconds later.

A question was voiced, a hasty confirmation given.

Glowing red eyes, embedded in a head that was strangely twisted, turned slowly upwards. A long incantation in an ancient, blasphemous tongue tore through the bones of the earth, splitting the stone ceiling asunder.

A cold wind breezed into being.

A pair of dark figures ascended.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ Please read! Please review! Every little bit helps.


	16. Chapter 16

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 16**

* * *

Within seconds of the alarm bells splitting the air, Bollotz had raised his staff of silver and yew. The tall sorcerer shouted a word, and a glossy purple shield flickered into existence around Harry, who flinched back in surprise. The goblins were springing into battle positions, cocking crossbows and kneeling around the guard platform to peer downwards.

The young battle-shaman who was on duty raised her hands, sending eerie maggot-glimmers corkscrewing around into the darkness below. The green-and-blue wormlights bolstered the faint dotted glow of torches burning in the depths. A dozen goblin-eyes tracked across every square foot of the rough-hewn walls.

Only Harry's foster aunt Talliapa, a wiry old matron with gold teeth and a barking voice, remained in the centre of the platform with him and Bollotz. She had immediately begun hashing together a plan with the master sorcerer, above the noise of the alarms.

"Get the boy to a saferoom! He is a liability here!"

Bollotz turned slowly in place, considering the echoing caverns around them and the narrow spurs of stone that spanned the chasm in various places. "We can't head up to the bank saferoom, a major breach in the 800s means the tracks will have been un-wrought. The secret words will have locked the carts, too."

"Well, you can't go up on the winding ledges, you'd be exposed from all sides, and the Downfall will be in full rush. Descend into the Maze?"

Harry followed the hurried discussion, waiting for orders. He was standing in a low fighting crouch, but his fists were clenched to keep them from shaking. He wished he was carrying his staff, so he had something comforting to grip.

Bollotz shook his head. "No. The alarms are coming from down there. It could be a cave kraken surfacing."

Talliapa narrowed her yellow eyes, listening. "That's the Treachery Bell ringing. It's _wizards_."

"The Western Way, then. If we spiral down through..."

"You can't, the Opaleyes will be roused for a fight. The false seven-hundred vaults? Hide in one of the furthest..."

Bollotz grimaced. "I don't want to chance dealing with a troll, and the sun-wards will be activated."

"Argh, _shit and woodworm_. The false eight-hundreds would be fine, but one of Thugdurn's blasted mechanical sphinxes got loose in there, too, and I don't know if they recovered-"

"It'll have to be one of the real vaults on this level."

"Yes. Seven-oh-eight is behind a secure passage. Take the Spidermaw Tunnel, go!"

Bollotz flicked his hand at Harry. They ran.

* * *

Granite walls flashed by, and Harry's legs burned. Behind him, Bollotz periodically thumped his staff against the ground as he ran, kicking up sparks that hung in strange patterns. Harry didn't know what the sorcerer was learning from this, and didn't have breath to ask. Whatever it was, it was causing him to curse occasionally.

Then there was a cataclysmic noise, and Harry was thrown off his feet.

Everything was shaking; the rock itself seemed to be bubbling beneath them. The thundering roar grew and grew, to a volume he would never have guessed possible, before suddenly waning. Harry's ears popped, and the noise of the alarms reasserted itself.

Boy and goblin both gasped "_rocks fall_," a swearword and a reality. Bollotz had instinctively raised his hands to strengthen his magical shield during the earthquake; the purple glow was now a solid disc in the air above them.

Gritty dust swirled around the tunnel. Jagged cracks had appeared in the walls and stones had fallen in places. Harry scrambled upright, hurriedly trying to remember which fork they were at.

"Up, up," Bollotz said distractedly. "Keep behind me now and step lightly, there could be more falls."

Curiously, it was that comment which made Harry truly realise how serious the situation was, and he shivered. Normally you wouldn't _think_ of moving again after a cave-in, not before the rescue crews had arrived and made sure it was stable.

The next few minutes were filled with the terrifying, echoing _thump_ of falling boulders, counterpoint to the insistent bells. Then they rounded a corner, and Bollotz halted in front of a wall of jagged rock, lightly veiled by swirling dust. The goblin groaned: the route to Vault 708 had fallen spectacularly. There was no way forward.

Bollotz spoke quickly and sharply as they backtracked to the previous intersection. "We will find as distant a vault as we can. I will open it and seal you inside. You will conceal yourself and remain absolutely still and silent until somebody fetches you. You _will_ stay there. Only if nobody comes and you are in danger of dehydration will you try to convince the imp locks to let you out. Do _not_ argue," he added in a hiss.

Harry stifled his objections, and began to follow again. His blood was boiling in his veins at the thought of an attack on Gringotts, but realistically, what could he do? His focus should be on _surviving_ whatever could cause tunnel collapses.

The Spidermaw Tunnel led to a maze of twisty little passages, all alike. At the end of each winding path lay a vault, or more commonly a dead end or a fiendish trap. They were near the end of the maze when a howling noise started up behind them, and the brisk march Bollotz had set suddenly turned into a run. The noise was growing unmistakeably louder by the second.

"What's – that – " Harry huffed.

"Don't know – not good – " the tall goblin replied.

After a moment, clattering footfalls were added to the mixture of storm-like roar and distant alarms. Bollotz had shaken his hood free and was chanting as he ran, words flowing faster than Harry could follow, and blazing orange and yellow glyphs formed in the air behind them.

A final corner, and they stood in a small cave, in front of the heavy steel door of a high-security vault. Harry staggered to a halt, trying to catch his breath, as the roaring noise behind them became a rushing thunder.

Time seemed to be slowing down for him – adrenaline, the word came to his mind from a book of muggle biology – and he watched Bollotz slowly, slowly reach out to the large diamond-screws that formed the vault number on the door. The goblin seemed to pale in recognition, and slowly, slowly, spun on his heel.

A question flourished, then died on Harry's lips when his sorcerous guard raised one hand. A stream of magic flung Harry into a shadowy niche near the ceiling. He distantly felt himself scrabble for a few seconds, barely finding purchase on the bare stone, blinking and breathless from the impact.

Then Bollotz's staff made curlicues in the air, and Harry was frozen against the rock wall. Automatically, he fought it, but found that he couldn't move a single muscle. There was nothing to do but watch as gloom _flowed_ across the cave from every nook and cranny and wrapped around him, concealing him perfectly where he half-stood, half-lay in a hollow near the ceiling. A spur of rock blocked part of his field of view, and some automatic part of his brain that was always thinking about the world around him traced the vein of quartz in it, whispering its chemical properties.

Then the cap of the goblin's staff curled back down to the ground, time still flowing thick and lumpy and strangely in tune with the blood thumping in Harry's ears. Between one beat and the next, Bollotz moved into a defensive crouch, facing away down the tunnel, still looking pale and grim.

As the noise of rushing wind reached a crescendo, Harry gazed at the vault door that stood just down and across from his immobilised body, and wondered for a moment what was so special about Vault 713.

* * *

Everything that happened next, he would recall only as a series of strangely disjointed images, which came to him at the time through a haze of shock and terror. There would be no rhyme nor reason until he could piece it together in his mind.

First, two dark-robed figures sped towards the end of the tunnel like out-of-control bats, the air seeming to lie in dark tatters behind them. On reaching the cave, the first tumbled out of flight like a falling leaf. Harry's blood ran cold at the sight of Bellatrix Lestrange, Azkaban escapee, looking strained and struggling to kneel upright. She clutched a wand in her left hand; her right arm lay limp and broken against her side. Spell damage had bruised her face, swollen one eye shut, and seared away parts of the skin on her lower arms.

The second figure touched the cavern floor gracefully, lighting on the toes of first one foot, and then the other. His wand was already sweeping in a wide half-circle, and when the flurry of green sparks that emerged had slowed to a steady cascade, Harry was looking at what _might_ have once been a young, balding man.

The reason that this was unclear was the man's head.

Oh salt and shale, the _head_. It seemed to be set crookedly on his shoulders, so that one ear lay where a normal person's temple would be. A completely dead face stared slackly out of the bulging neck area, smeared across much more space than a normal set of features would occupy, so that it curved obscenely around the contours of the skull. Worse, from this angle Harry could see just a sliver of a completely _other_ visage; a cruel, snakelike face with dully-glowing red eyes that immediately seared themselves into the boy's memory.

The tattered and charred remains of what looked like a long purple scarf trailed around the wizard's neck and across his shoulder.

The unmistakeable smell of decay filled Harry's nostrils, a clear and striking note in the tunnels of the bank, which seldom held any odour other than smoke or hot metal.

Petrified as he was, Harry could just barely see Bollotz gritting his teeth and weaving together a complex shield of ancient white runes. Harry shrieked silently as he saw that it was already withering away beneath the acid-green sparks that flowed from the misshapen wizard's wand.

On the other side of the cave, a goblin Harry didn't recognise staggered to a halt, gasping for breath. He was squat and earthy-skinned, holding a black leather sack, and his expression was strangely vacant. Behind him, the clamour of pursuit was growing rapidly louder, but the goblin was completely ignoring everything that was going on around him.

And then Lestrange was standing upright, and blood was pouring down the side of her face, and a troupe of goblin guards were racing around the corner even as the last symbols in Bollotz's shield curled in upon themselves and died. Harry was wordlessly willing them to _please_ come back, but they did not, and the monstrous wizard was _laughing_ as his wand flickered through the air, and Bollotz just barely parried the spell in time, and Lestrange was warding off the goblin guards with a stream of oozing, necrotic black snakes that gushed wetly from her wand, and –

And then a massive figure, bigger and hairier than any human Harry had ever seen, was lumbering into the fray alongside an unarmed goblin – the clerk Griphook, Harry barely registered. And now he realised with a sudden rush of relief that he was hallucinating, because the bearded ogre was batting conjured monstrosities aside with a pink umbrella.

– And _go_, the misshapen wizard was yelling in his cold, high voice, and something like _you will bring it to me at the second place_, and Lestrange had snatched the leather sack from that first goblin who was standing as still as stone. She started forcing her way through the throng to escape, and the guards were following her, unable to penetrate her storm of magic to strike a telling blow –

– And the man with the incongruous purple scarf was turning his attention back to Bollotz, a flick of his wand and the body of a fallen guard exploded in a cloud of gore, ribs flying through the air and turning into long, dark spears just before they reached the goblin sorcerer, who managed to force them away... the misshapen man was firing spell after spell at Bollotz, who was gasping and on his knees, staff splintering and smoking in front of him as protection after protection caved –

– And Harry's attention flickered back at the sound of clashing metal. The enormous bearded man had turned for a moment to chase Lestrange, but then halted; he was looking uncertainly back towards the vault, as Griphook was fighting with that eerily vacant-looking goblin, knife against knife, already bleeding in two places –

– And then a jet of ugly green light erupted from the grotesque wizard's wand, and Harry stopped struggling against the charm holding him frozen in place near the ceiling and just watched, unable to tear his eyes away from it. The spell was a colour that resonated darkly with some base and fearful part of him, and he couldn't look away as it tore unstoppably forward, before seeming to stop and just barely touch Bollotz's chest with a tiny tendril, and there it vanished in a flash –

– And Harry's eyelids refused to close when the suddenly _empty_-looking body collapsed to the floor –

– And still he was staring when the ugly man turned to face the bearded brute, who blinked as two different spells in quick succession bounced off his huge frame quite harmlessly. Harry felt the dark camouflage that had covered him vanishing away, and the bonds of paralysis loosen and evaporate. The giant was backing up, and the purple-scarfed monster followed him two steps forward, slowly and intently, and Harry managed to steady his footing for just a moment on the sloping wall of the niche as the magic that held him there expired.

A moment was all he needed to draw his long knife; he didn't even need time to think. He didn't even draw breath to yell.

He just flung himself forward at the two-faced wizard, one hand gripping tightly to stab and the other with fingers splayed to gouge.

And then there was pain like he had never felt before.

And then, nothing.

* * *

A noise, like something bubbling up from underwater.

There was darkness, and he wasn't sure if he had imagined the voice that rung in his ears. Then a little light came on inside his head, and the first sensation he felt was of something pleasantly cool and dry, pooled on his bare chest.

Then the pain gripped him, a dull burning on his forehead that made him tense up and writhe, and he realised he had no idea where he was, but it felt like the room was flying in circles, and he couldn't feel his arms or legs. The cool weight on his chest stirred in agitation.

Somebody prised his jaw open. A still distant-sounding voice said, "drink."

He didn't have a lot of choice, as a few spoonfuls of something lukewarm and tasting of earthworms trickled down his throat.

He spluttered, his head swimming even more, but the burning soon faded to a faint tingle. Then somebody poked him in the ribs.

"Ow," Harry complained vaguely.

There was a pleased grunt, and then two voices spoke at once, in two different languages.

_That is the last time you go anywhere without me, _"We needed to wake you early to make sure you were not damaged," _Harry Potter._ "Harry Potter. Since you appear" _Foolish child! Trying to bite a _"to be well, you should sleep again." _salamander!_

"Again," he croaked. "Separately."

There was a pause. "What?"

The snake lying on his chest gave a protracted sigh. _Salamanders. You bit something that could burn you, my stupid friend._

Two fingers forced his eyelid open. A goblin he vaguely recognised – that unsympathetic healer with the unfortunate wart – she had taught him how to splint a limb – stood in a dimly lit room. Cave. Room, he decided. He wondered vaguely why he was there.

Goblin-charms made little rippling disturbances in the air, which smelled of smoke and medicinal moss. "Concussion, perhaps? Hmmm? Do you remember who I am, who you are, why?"

He thought, managing to open both eyes by himself.

"Harry. Cave. A... salamander?"

The healer scowled down at him, shook her head, and said something.

Whatever it was, he didn't hear it. Terrible images were filling his brain. Bollotz's lifeless eyes were staring up at him, and Griphook was lying still with two knives in his back, and a goblin's body was rupturing as bones exploded from it, and a dead face was hanging slackly from where a man's neck should have been, and now Harry was retching violently.

A hand tilted his head firmly as he gasped for breath. A murmured incantation, and the smell of expelled bile faded from the air. He kept his eyes shut. "Dead," he mumbled. "Bollotz. He died. Right there. And Griphook. Others. Dead."

There was a quiet murmur of confirmation.

He had to ask, but he didn't want to. Time ticked by, and Prettyroot flowed up his chest and wound comfortingly around his neck; he didn't want to ask, but he had to.

"The others?"

The healer looked away for a moment, then rattled off six names. Harry felt them sitting on the edge of his consciousness. He was deliberately keeping them out, not letting them sink in.

Instead, he turned to scan the room. The healer – Brassruuk, he remembered, she was Brassruuk the Impatient – let go of his head and leaned back to perch on a high stool.

There was someone else waiting, in a corner, also seated on a stool. One of Bogripple's secret clerks.

Harry eyed the stout goblin, who was holding a clipboard. His head still felt a mess, but he couldn't put off asking. "What... happened?"

* * *

The man with the two faces had been identified as Quirinus Quirrell, a Hogwarts professor, which was a deeply troubling fact. The story behind those two faces was not clear; but some sort of dark magic gone wrong was the theory of the moment. He might have been seriously cursed. He might have been possessed. He might have been someone completely different, merely wearing the empty skin of Quirrell.

Whatever he had been, he was dead.

Harry's mere _grasp_ had burned him to a cinder. True, the blade right through his eye probably hadn't helped. But judging by the distinct holes Harry's fingers had burned into his skull, like a hot poker through crumpled paper, it was the touch that had finished him.

Nobody seemed able to explain exactly why that had happened – although Badluk, when he had joined Harry, Brassruuk and the clerk, admitted to having suspicions. The name 'Voldemort' was mentioned.

Bellatrix Lestrange had managed to escape, severely wounded, taking an illegal portkey as soon as she reached the Gringotts foyer.

Harry scowled at this unwelcome information. His thoughts returned to the cave outside the vault, and the last man. "What about the ...big man, with the beard? What... I mean, what _was_ he, even? What happened to him?"

The information clerk – one of Manager Bogripple's spies – answered this with reference to a clipboard. "Rubeus Hagrid. A sorry sort of wizard. A half-giant, I would assume. We took him into custody, which would not have been easy but for the fact that he was struck by an unknown curse. We couldn't identify it, but he was having some sort of seizure or fit. He was there on quite legitimate business, sent by Chief Warlock Dumbledore to withdraw the vault's contents. The guards witnessed him trying to detain the Lestrange _thief_. He was clearly trying to help, so we released him after he regained consciousness a few hours ago."

"Is he okay?"

The goblin shrugged. "We offered a portkey to St Mungo's, since he was quite badly wounded, but he refused, insisting that he preferred to recover on his own."

Harry put down the sick-bucket he had been given, and lay on his side. His foster father was rubbing his neck. "The vault contents? Security? Damages?"

"We are digging out two vaults and re-building five sections of track. Lichen Boulevard was completely destroyed. Vault 807 was breached, but by the vault-owner, Lestrange. The council is yet to convene to decide the protocol to deal with that, but there will be a full audit, and possibly fines for reparations. The wizard magic wreaked some havoc in the Boulevard. Vault 713 remained secure, of course, and has now been emptied."

"The old man _has_ the rock," Badluk said. "We are well shot of it."

"Who? What rock?"

Badluk visibly hesitated, shifting slightly on his stool. "Dumbledore visited personally when he heard what had happened. I will speak no more of it, but he does not find much favour with us at the moment."

Harry closed his eyes, trying to working out why, and felt Prettyroot slither onto the pillow beside him. "Voldemort... You said Dumbledore always believed he'd be back. If that-"

"Yes. The old man jumped to that conclusion readily enough, too. _Almost_ as if he had forewarning, yet failed to share that with us. It had only been suggested that the thief Lestrange would be interested in the – item."

"If that was... then he'll still be back..." Harry couldn't summon the strength to open his eyes again.

"Don't worry about that right now."

Harry lay still. "I killed a man," he said fuzzily. Shouldn't that have disturbed him more?

"You took a _thief_. His life was forfeit under every law we have. You know this, yes." Yes, of course... But still...

The last thing he heard his foster father say, before he drifted back into sleep, was that the funerals would be in two days' time.

* * *

Harry got through all the proceedings that followed in a kind of horrible blur. For the parts where he needed to be in Gringotts, Boris Scintillion kept him under a regular dose of Cheering Charms. Harry noticed the wizard was also casting them on himself. For the parts where he needed to be in Underfoot, Harry closed his eyes as much as possible and kept close to Prettyroot and his parents.

Tribbleglean, the goblin who had killed Griphook while under a mind-controlling curse, was cast out of Underfoot and the Brotherhood. It seemed terribly unfair to Harry, but then, so did the deaths of eight brave goblins. The lore and the law said that the blood was upon his hands. There was nothing to be done.

The vault guardians were shuffled around to make up for the gap left by a slain dragon and three destroyed Unsdugu. The Brothers began searching amongst their counterparts for a replacement Ukrainian Ironbelly.

The body of Griphook was lowered into the Insurmountable Depths, beneath even the Great Below, on a thick rope, which was paid out for hours until it snapped under its own weight. A warrior's funeral for a lowly clerk, who had died in combat.

The same ceremony was performed for the six dead guards, Harry's foster aunt Talliapa amongst them. Wooden replica crossbows and axes, lovingly carved by their children, nieces and nephews, were packed alongside their bodies for the descent. It would have been a criminal waste to send them off with the real objects, of course.

Harry dropped a sprig of greencliff willowherb after his aunt, and cried a little as it vanished into the blackness.

Some of the Council of Counters adjudicated over the distribution of the possessions of the slain, and Harry was required to attend that, too. Most of the objects went into the coffers of the Brotherhood, to be given to those with the greatest Craft. Those items whose value was sentimental went to the families of the slain, who were most in need of them.

Bollotz, as was traditional for a sorcerer of the highest degree, was carefully embalmed by his brethren and sistren, skin stretched waxy and tight over carefully-dried flesh. Then his body was bound in sturdy rings of goblin-silver, and placed cross-legged with his ceremonial mask and his staff of sorcery in a stone niche within the Unfathomable Maze. Future rune carvers would, one by one, set in place the elaborate glyphs that would integrate his deathly shell into the Gringotts security system.

Harry cried a little more as they walked away between the tall, statue-like forms of the unliving Undsdugu, who stood silently with animalian heads bowed.

And then life went on.

* * *

The parchment trembled as Harry's hands shook with dull anger. This week's Daily Prophet articles had not been pleasant to read. The murder of goblins wasn't even mentioned by this journalist. Instead, the wizard had pestered goblins terse with grief until he had elicited a suitably sensationalist quote.

"We're not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out of it if you know what's good for you," Harry read aloud. Vangrashk had said that; Vangrashk whose brother had been gruesomely killed just days earlier.

He crumpled up the paper and threw it into his foster mother's fireplace.

There had been a formal commiseration from the Goblin Liaison Office, apparently. Of course, the Ministry had no comment to the press. Financial disruption got in the way of good governance, so it was best to maintain the pretence that Gringotts was unassailable.

Harry glanced around at Sibilig's office. If events had not unfolded as they had, he would be looking at the walls of kelp-and-sand huts right now. The trip which Harry had been looking forward to – it seemed a very long time ago – had been cancelled. The estuarine Mer would understand; death was of no great importance to their strange aquatic culture, but neither were things like appointments and schedules. The Brotherhood would send a delegation some other time, when things were less grim.

"I want you to work on your Mermish regardless," Sibilig instructed him, her usual stern scowl relaxed to a mild one. "There are supposedly freshwater merfolk at Hogwarts, isolated from their brethren and not in contact with the other magical races. If this is true, we should have somebody there to make a friendly gesture."

Harry nodded, and put it on his list of so many things to do.

* * *

Harry's birthday slipped by unnoticed in the mess, but Filius brought him his Hogwarts letter. Apparently, post owls had been unable to reach him, no doubt due to the magical defences arrayed around Underfoot.

After some wheedling, his foster parents allowed him to go to Diagon Alley for his school supplies. It should be quite safe, as Lestrange couldn't have healed yet from her grievous wounds, and a goblin glamour would make him indistinguishable from the other Hogwarts students traversing the Alley before term started. He was accompanied by Filius, Scintillion and Brown, and he assumed other Gringotts wizards were keeping track of them from a distance.

Their first stop was the papery wonderland of Flourish & Blotts. Thanks to Filius, Harry owned most of the first-year textbooks already, but rounded off the set now with _A History of Magic_, _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_, and the much lighter _Magical Drafts and Potions_. He found several other books that looked interesting, but didn't choose as many as he might have, as Brother Filius had told him that the Hogwarts library was very extensive.

Something about the display of Hogwarts textbooks captured Harry's attention, though. He scowled as he examined the titles.

"There is a strange pattern behind these authors' names," he observed aloud. "The advanced Charms books are all penned by Stephantasia B'dazzle. _Magical Drafts and Potions_ is from someone named Arsenius Jigger. The _Encyclopedia of Arithmancy_ is written by Terrence Warder. And... I remember my transfiguration book is by a writer called Switch. Either the universe is playing a strange joke, or they are all pseudonyms."

"Ah yes, there is quite a correlation between the author's name and their topic, isn't there," Flitwick chirped, looking up from a biography he was perusing. "But I'm afraid that there is no chicanery or disguise at work."

Harry frowned, looking back at the shelves and counting. "But it can't simply be coincidence. Probably a full third of the authors have a name that is linked somehow to their work. That doesn't just _happen_."

He thought carefully, while Ms Brown sat down on a reading stool, clearly aware that they weren't going to be moving on until the puzzle was solved.

"Okay..." Harry said slowly. "Suppose people in the wizarding war – people who were targets – chose new names to protect their identities. They _might_ have chosen a name according to their trade."

Filius shook his balding head. "It was the muggleborns who were most at risk during the war. Therefore having a surname not recognisable as being from one of the known wizarding families would make you _more_ of a target for You-Know-Who. I think you've got quite the wrong idea: the names you're looking at are from very old-established families," he added squeakily.

Harry nodded, accepting the hint. "Well, the subject area can't have been named after the family name, because that would have been tremendously long ago and words change over time. And it would _still_ be too much of a coincidence that those words were named after those families, and it _still_ wouldn't explain why people with that particular name are still the ones writing... the textbooks... oh."

Flitwick nodded happily as light dawned.

"It must be that a particular skill or expertise runs in a family, then," Harry said. "Presumably the B'dazzles became known for their charms work, and the Jiggers their potions, the Warders – well, all warding is grounded in arithmancy..."

"Yes, I believe you've hit upon it. The Potters, after all, would once upon a time have _been_ potters. My grandmother's surname was Chandler, from which we can assume that I have actually chandlers in my ancestry. Children tend to go into their family's line of work, and parents like to pass on their particular skills and talents. Arsenius Jigger comes from a long line of Jiggers who brewed commercial-grade potions. _Just a jigger of this or that_, you see. _With a high quality potion, you need no more than a jigger_. It's something akin to advertising."

Filius smiled brightly, and began to levitate Harry's stack of books up to the sales counter. "And the more renowned a family is for a skill, the more likely a member will gravitate towards the profession, and the more likely they will rise to the top to teach or write. You'll find many of your Hogwarts professors, too, have monikers related to their particular domain."

As they moved on to the apothecary, Harry asked uncertainly whether he should have read all of his books before school. He had finished Waffling's _Magical Theory_, and had read through the first _Standard Book of Spells_. He could only cast a few of the charms in it, but had planned out what he wanted to work on next. He knew all the theory sections from his transfiguration book, too, and had finished his Defence text, but had found it unhelpful. The author went off on all sorts of strange tangents. Most of the spells described couldn't be kept up continuously, and were slow or complicated or just too esoteric to be of much use. Like a jinx to ward off kappas, or a countercurse for use specifically against toothache curses, or a projectile-deflecting shield that was eighteen syllables long.

Flitwick nodded, pleased, and told him that he would need to be well-versed in all his textbooks by the end of his first year, and that he would personally be delighted to see Harry move on to advanced material and extra-curricular study. Harry looked speculatively at the three latest tomes and wondered how far he could get through them in the month or so before class.

Harry bought a pewter cauldron and several sets of phials at the apothecary, as well as his basic potions ingredients and three smaller, stackable tin cauldrons in case he wanted to experiment. The artificer next door set him up with a telescope and scales, both in brass, but it was the samples of tropical woods that he gravitated to. Goblins didn't usually work with surface timbers. Harry chatted for a while with the shopkeeper about varnishes that would protect from chizpurfle and other common forms of magical borer. The artificer seemed surprised at the depth of knowledge belonging to the unassuming young boy.

Harry put off the boring business of being fitted for his uniform robes until there was little left to do, and bought the scarf, tie, cloak and other Hogwarts accoutrements. He earned a small frown from Madam Malkin when he declined to purchase the prescribed dragonhide gloves, though – Underfoot's leatherworkers would surely be able to produce something of superior quality to mere wizardwork.

* * *

The last stop was at the pet store, where Harry bought a half-dozen baby mice for Prettyroot. Filius said she wouldn't be allowed to come with him to Hogwarts, but after first year he could apply to his head of house to bring a pet that needed more care than the owl, toad or rat mentioned in the Hogwarts letter.

They were almost back at the bank when a thought suddenly struck him. When he was at school, would his snake companion remain intelligent, or would she degenerate into a regular rock worm as if she had never been exposed to Parseltongue? Had he read anywhere whether or not the effect was permanent?

Harry thanked his minders and hurriedly took his leave, worrying all the way down to Underfoot.

Prettyroot herself, when he found her in the garden, didn't know what would happen to her when he left. In between throatfuls of mouse, she explained that she didn't even remember her original awakening from non-sapience. Harry tracked down the books and references which Badluk had found when he originally investigated the ability, but they had no answer. Bewilderingly, most of them seemed to imply that all serpents were _innately_ intelligent, and Parseltongue just a magically-inherited language. That was just ridiculous, of course – anyone could see that snakes didn't exhibit intelligent behaviour, and Prettyroot confirmed it.

There was only one thing to do, apart from secretly smuggling Sssthsnnss into Hogwarts, which Harry had decided would be his last resort.

So he began to experiment with snakes. On Buvolok's day of rest, Harry dragooned his goblin friend into helping out by trapping a dozen young rock worms. Harry spoke to each of the strange, dragon-headed serpents for a different length of time. Then he divided the snakes into separate cages and enlisted Prettyroot to speak to them periodically, to detect if and when they were becoming dumber.

Buvolok wasn't sure what they were doing and why, but had long ago learned to just accept Harry's seeming eccentricities. Apparently the human boy's longstanding serpent friend might possibly lose her memory and mind when he left for wizard school, and this would help them ascertain whether or not it would happen.

The rock worm which Harry had spoken one sentence to joined its brother (the control snake) in nonsentience before an hour was over. It was a full day before the one-minute-conversation snake lost its intelligence, and then a week passed before the same happened to its two-minute-conversation counterpart. By the time Hogwarts was a looming encounter rather than a distant dream, Harry had sketched what looked like the start of what his books called an exponential curve. Since he had been speaking to Prettyroot every day for many years, he was relieved to be fairly certain that she would be safe.

And so the days flew and crept past by turns.

Between his other studies, which had departed from the traditional crafts as he prepared for school, Harry expanded his experiment a little. He watched a conversation between Prettyroot and a 'mute snake', intending to speak one word at a time in Parseltongue to observe the process of it becoming intelligent. It turned out that just exhaling noisily was enough, if he was _thinking_ about speaking Parseltongue. So was speaking gibberish while looking at a snake. On the other hand, Prettyroot couldn't turn a snake sentient even when immediately repeating aloud the Parseltongue words he whispered to her. Interesting.

The days had flown and crept, and he was lying on a cavern floor, taking down the results in one of his many notebooks, when it struck him that he was going to leave home for Hogwarts and the world of wizarddom the very next day.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ This chapter was meant to be an exciting one and I'd like to thank my friend Tilly for reading through it and assuaging my doubts about that.

→ Next chapter: roll on, the Hogwarts Express. _Finally_.

→ Thanks for reading and please do review if you have the time, I like to watch the little numbers piling up.


	17. Chapter 17

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 17**

* * *

"Harry Potter! Did you eat breakfast? You still have those books to return before you leave, and we're taking you up so that Bogripple can have a word with you. It would _not do_ to be late."

Harry waved to Sibilig. "I'll be back within the hour! I've got the books, I'll loop through town and drop them off on my way."

"Where are you going?"

Harry grinned, throwing a stub of charcoal in the air and catching it. "Down to the Bluestone cavern fields, to sketch ground insects. I want to compare them to the ones that live on the surface!"

His foster mother gave him a withering glare. "Don't. Be. Late."

* * *

An hour later, Harry reluctantly gathered his sketches and returned to the dwelling.

In his room, he dressed like a soldier preparing for battle. He pulled a wormhide vest on over his simple undershirt, cinching the straps until the leather was snug. The heavier vest which he used for staff-fighting – it was more like armour than clothing – went in his travelling trunk. His soft cloth trousers had marks where he had knelt in the dirt, so he replaced those with wormhide.

Black boots, the kind that stretched to the knee in goblin fashion. He checked the three buckles on each one. The heavy outer robes, cloak, pointy hat and gloves that were part of his uniform went in the trunk. The school was in the cold north, but from what he remembered from surface weather it should still be reasonably warm in this season.

A quick trim of his messy fringe so that it hung just above the top of his scar; this way he wouldn't have to bother with it for a few months. He never let his hair get long enough to distract him.

Glasses firmly on the nose. Plain black robes free of dirt. Buttons seemed shiny enough. Strange black tie as straight as he could make it. No wristbands or leather spaulders to adjust today.

Right, then.

Harry Potter slung his staff on his back and stepped out.

* * *

The serene Manager Bogripple had a little advice for Harry before he left the arms of the Brotherhood. Harry met him in his office at nine in the morning, where the goblin sat between folders and boxes marked 'Hogwarts', 'G.B. Wizard Culture', 'Hogsmeade site', 'Wizard magic – perils', 'A.P.W.B.D', and similar.

Bogripple considered him thoroughly over a mug of tadpole soup. It was the only time Harry had ever seen the Head of Information and Veracity eating. At last, the goblin closed the card file in front of him and spoke.

"Make friends and contacts. We would like to know about the freshwater merfolk, if they do exist. Speak to the centaurs if you have the opportunity, but do not venture too far into their woods. There are forest trolls in there, which would not take kindly to human intrusion. There are also rumours of darker creatures – dire wolves and similar. Keep within the grounds. There will be Aurors patrolling and Dementors posted due to the combined circumstances of you, Black, and Lestrange.

"Owl post is not secure, and we do not know the nature or extent of the castle's mail wards. Now that you know this, it will be impossible for you to discuss Brotherhood secrets by owl. Anything important, bring to Brother Filius. You could ask him any other questions you don't wish to wait for a reply to. We do have dossiers on the staff, but there is little of import. Be wary around Professor Severus Snape, who was charged with war crimes and acquitted at closed trial with the support of Professor Albus Dumbledore. Dumbledore himself is always an unknown quantity, but no threat, I feel. Professor Septima Vector is a new member of the staff this year and we have no information on her. And there is one vacant professorial position, too – we do not know how it will be filled."

The manager splayed his fingers out on his desk, cocked his head to regard Harry, and continued.

"Tread carefully around the castle house elves. Were I you I would not seek them out, as you can do nothing for them and their ...dismal state may distress you. Do not drink or gamble, regardless of what older students may do. Wizards cook their food _considerably_ longer than we do, but it is fine to eat, if bland. My personal experience indicates that you won't have to worry about not eating any green wobbly bits. Don't be greedy or overly fastidious. Adopt the manners and mannerisms of your peers. There is no need to hide the magic you know, but when in public, favour the wizard spells you are taught.

"Do not talk about the _theft_, at all. Do not let on about your ability with the snake language. If you damage something, pay for it or rebuild it. Take care of names and titles. Learn something about everyone you meet and look beyond the surface. Be respectful to your teachers even if they are the worst sort of wizard. Take note of everything interesting and be prepared to report back to me. Don't do anything stupid to the school's wards and enchantments. Keep your fingers out of your nostrils and your knife and staff in your trunk. Stay out of trouble. Questions? No? No. Go."

And with that, the goblin dismissed him, immediately picking up a thin gold pen and beginning to write.

* * *

Harry had farewelled his friends the evening before. All that remained was to exchange minimally tearful goodbyes with his foster parents and tickle Prettyroot's chin, and then he headed for the main foyer of Gringotts. His pockets were full of sketches of chrysalises, his wand was tucked into a narrow strip of material stitched into his sleeve for that purpose, and he felt only a small buzz of trepidation.

Mr Scintillion awaited him at the marble counters. The former curse breaker now permanently retained by Gringotts shook Harry's hand when he saw him. Then he dropped something into Harry's pocket with a silent wink, and picked up the magically shrunken school trunk. Harry set his jaw resolutely and nodded to Scintillion, who nodded back, drew Harry in close to his side, and then spun abruptly on his heel with the quiet _pop_ of Disapparition.

There was a moment of disorientation as the universe digested the news that a tiny fraction of its particles had changed location for no good reason, and then shapes and colours came back, along with the hooting of owls and tumultuous chatter of children. Existence reasserted itself. Harry was looking out on the steam and chaos of Platform 9 ¾.

* * *

Harry staggered slightly, then looked cautiously around.

A large clock showed him it was not quite yet the tenth hour, while the sign next to it indicated the train would be departing from the platform at eleven. Why Platform Nine-And-Three-Quarters, anyway? Was there some occult significance to the number, or was it simply one of those weird wizarding traditions, like holidays and silly robes with triple ruffs – some idea that had stood around too long in the dry surface air, and ossified?

Harry's keen eye traversed the rest of the station. It was cavernous but brightly-lit, and studded with stone pillars along the sides. There was a wrought-iron archway nearby, with an open-air fireplace on either side - presumably for Floo travel, although people would have to bring their own powder.

Harry studied the other early arrivals. A handful of students sat on benches or their upturned school trunks, alone or talking in small groups. A few parents and younger children stood with them, while several Aurors lurked as discretely as they could in blood-red robes.

Scanning the platform, it looked like only one other person was wearing their Hogwarts robes already. The others were informally dressed. Well, he was learning things already, which was all to the good.

"Good luck, Mr Potter," Mr Scintillion said behind him. Harry acknowledged this with a wave as he stepped towards the bright red steam engine, which was producing wisps of smoke. He had a vague notion of what it is, but it was quite unlike any of the Gringotts carts – not even the largest spoil-hauling ones.

A quick examination with his magnifying glasses showed the train to be made of metal – probably a light steel or alloy. He wasn't sure what wizards were capable of in their steel mills and metal-casting. There were oil lanterns in brackets around what he took to be the engine. Harry tapped the glossy paint thoughtfully. No doubt the whole edifice was enchanted, but it would probably be frowned upon if he started casting goblin-charms to get a better look at the workmanship.

Harry hefted his shrunken trunk and glanced down the long platform. Curious eyes had already fallen on him from the sparse crowd. The closest wizards were staring thoughtfully at his scar, and one old lady was whispering to her friend behind a cupped hand, the other jabbing a finger in his direction.

Well, sparks and bolts to them. Harry wandered off down the platform, smiling faintly as he noticed Mr Scintillion discretely keeping pace with him behind the row of pillars. He passed an older boy with tousled hair jabbing his wand angrily at a heavy sea-chest. The chest was squatting on spindly legs, and appeared to be ignoring him.

Harry paused when he saw another boy, flushed and round-faced, wearing a strange chequered dress robe that was slightly too large on him. The girl he had spotted earlier in Hogwarts robes was talking to – or perhaps _at_ – him. Both students seemed to be roughly his own age.

A forbidding-looking matron was standing just within hearing distance. If Harry was judging her expression right – he was more used to the wide range of grins and sneers goblins used to express their moods – she was looking disapprovingly at the pair.

Harry glanced down at what had caught his attention: a toad that had stealthily eased its way from the boy's side pocket and fallen unnoticed into the shadow of a pile of trunks. It was now making a desperate bid for liberty and glory, which Harry foiled by closing the distance between them and scooping it up.

"You appear to have lost a toad," Harry said, proffering the sickly-looking creature.

The boy seemed to flinch slightly. "Trevor! I didn't even see him go!"

He carefully took custody of the forlorn amphibian. "Thank you... er..." his eyes widened a little as they saw his scar.

"Harry James Potter," Harry said, apparently unnecessarily. The boy seemed to draw himself up a little as the old woman who had been watching them moved away into the growing crowd.

"Oh! Are you really him?" The girl was looking at Harry like a specimen for a preserving jar. "Oh, I've read all about _you_. You defeated a Dark Wizard who mustn't be named, and-"

Harry grimaced, and cut her off. "If you've already read all about _me_, maybe you should tell me about you?"

A brief look of panic crossed the girl's face. Then she drew herself up and folded her arms in front of her. "I'm Hermione Granger, and I only found out I was a witch a few months ago, my parents were very surprised, but once I had my wand I tried some spells and they all worked, and I've read all of the course books as well as _Wand and Word: Improving Your Charmwork_ and _Modern Magical History_ and _Forays Into Foreign Spells_ and _Break With A Banshee_ and _Potions And You_, and, oh, a few others, and this is Neville, uh..."

"N-Neville Longbottom," the boy said, looking askance at Hermione Granger, who hadn't seemed to draw breath once during her speech.

Harry shook hands with each of them, human fashion, and automatically committed their names to memory. He was about to ask the apparently well-read girl whether she knew the history behind the platform's name, when a loud voice interrupted him from behind.

* * *

"Harry Potter, is it?"

Harry turned quickly to see a pale, blonde boy, who was also offering a hand to shake. Harry tentatively accepted it.

"Draco Malfoy." The boy frowned when Harry immediately dropped his hand. "Recognise the name, do you? I do hope we can get off to a good start despite my father's politics. I'm sure I could sway him from speaking to the media any further about you. I trust you realise that I'll be the most useful person you could know in our class."

"Lucius Malfoy caused my family a lot of trouble," Harry agreed, staring the boy in the eyes. "But since you are not him, I don't see why that should matter."

"Your ...family?" Draco Malfoy seemed about to say something else, but shook himself and turned to the other two students. He eyed Neville Longbottom, curling his lips but not commenting, and then looked pointedly at Hermione Granger.

"You, I don't recognise at all. Not _muggleborn_, I hope?"

"I- what if I am?"

Draco Malfoy rolled his eyes and turned back to Harry. "Potter, you'll soon find out that there's a type of wizard you _don't_ want to be seen hanging around with. Names, you see, that you _don't_ want to become associated with." He ignored the girl's gasp. "I can help you there."

Harry frowned, annoyed at the manner of this boy, and made a small humming noise of disagreement. "Why should I care about names? Names are nothing. A person stands on their own-" he searched for a word, but realised English was less craft-oriented, so had to substitute – "merit. If names mattered, I would not care to be associated with the name _Malfoy_, because of your father. As it is, you are lucky I do not care."

A tinge of pink marred the other boy's pale cheeks. "My ancestry is far better than yours," he said coldly. "And my father is a more powerful wizard than you can imagine. It seems goblins didn't raise you any with any idea of _decorum_ or _worth_, but once you have your head on straight and come crawling back for my favour, I'll be waiting."

Harry opened his mouth to deliver a short lecture on the nature of _worth_, but Draco Malfoy was walking briskly away. He blinked, uncertain of what exactly had caused that. Hmmm. Hermione was mouthing 'thank you' and Neville had gone beet-red for some reason. "What did he mean by 'head on straight'? Is this a wizarding term, yes?"

Another boy suddenly stepped forward from Harry's blind spot, causing his hand to dart reflexively for his knife. The newcomer's lips quirked. "Have you really not heard the phrase? It means: come to your senses, think properly, become reasonable. There is a little irony, perhaps, in Messr Malfoy using it."

The new boy had circled around into Harry's field of vision. He was tall and dark-skinned, with close-cropped hair, and he too was carrying a shrunken trunk, which he dropped carelessly at his feet. He looked the three of them up and down, then addressed Harry.

"I watched your little byplay with interest. I met Draco once or twice, I'm sorry to say. A ghastly little prig, but my mother moves in certain... circles, you see, which involve his family. I'm Blaise. Blaise Zabini."

Harry filed the new name away, and shook his hand. "I am Harry James Potter. It is nice to meet you, Blaise Zabini."

Faint puzzlement registered in the boy's almond eyes "You do realise you don't have to call people by their full names? Just 'Blaise' is fine."

"Ah. I don't think I was raised with the same... traditions of naming and address that you were. I would never have used anything but the fullest title I knew until told otherwise. Uh, this is Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom."

Blaise shook hands with each, Hermione looking like she was bursting with unspoken questions and Neville apparently surprised that Harry had remembered his name.

Blaise propped his shrunken trunk on the stacked pieces of luggage already on the platform, then dropped to sit with his legs sprawled across them. "Do you really not care about ancestry and the old names and that whole rigmarole?"

Harry shrugged, and tried to explain. "A given name is just ...a name. Where I come from, people don't even _have_ family names. If you make something really amazing – or do something important, I suppose – then you might become known by some kind of title. But being important because you are _related_ to someone who did something important would be …bizarre, I suppose is the word."

"You're going to make a lot of enemies that way."

"Where were you raised, that doesn't have family names?" Hermione asked sharply.

The three boys blinked at her.

"I thought you knew all about me," Harry said dryly. "But obviously they need to update the modern history-books."

"I- I heard from the Prophet newspaper that you were raised by g-goblins," Neville proffered nervously, turning his toad over and over in his hands. "I- my Gran usually says not to pay that sort of gossip any mind, and that the Daily Prophet is a rag, but there was a whole, um, big thing about it."

Hermione frowned. "There are wizard newspapers? Where would I buy one? Were you _really_ raised by goblins? Why don't any of the books say that?"

Blaise cocked an eyebrow at Harry, and rose from where he had been sitting, apparently in perfect comfort, on the pile of hard-cornered travelling trunks. "Well, you seem interesting enough to be going on with. Shall we go and find a compartment, then?"

* * *

Harry answered a steady stream of questions as they got on the train and moved down the carriages. The compartments near the front of the train already had children in them, most of them older-looking. He had just finished explaining what little he knew about the Daily Prophet when Blaise peered in through a frosted pane and opened the door.

A young, weedy boy glanced across at them from the corner, where he had been staring out the window at the platform. The compartment was otherwise empty.

"Do you mind?" Blaise gestured at the space.

The boy, who had almost ash-grey hair, shrugged, scrutinising their faces. "It's a free country."

Blaise smiled and threw his trunk up onto the racks, then helped the others with theirs. He tapped his fingers against his cheek, then snapped them and pointed. "Nott, right? Theodore Nott? We have a mutual cousin, Salisbury Borage?"

The boy nodded briefly. "He's a complete oik. Yes, Blaise Zabini, I remember. You're all first years, too?"

Each of them nodded, and introduced themselves. Theodore put a firm halt to Blaise calling him "Theo", which seemed reasonable to Harry, and then seemed to lose interest in the conversation. The four newcomers settled down and began to discuss their families. Outside, the station started to fill up.

It emerged that Neville came from an old, well-known wizarding line, and high expectations had been placed upon him as the Scion of Longbottom. A completely evil-sounding man by the name of Uncle Algie was implicated in trying to provoke Neville's accidental magic into flaring. The intense pressure seemed to have come close to cracking Neville instead of strengthening him. The same uncle had bought Neville his toad, which had escaped to the luggage rack to stare balefully down at its owner.

Blaise, on the other hand, was a sword whose edge had been well-whetted by familial trouble. His father had been his mother's fourth husband, and the boy had an older half-sister and half-brother from husbands one and three respectively. Blaise's mother was now on husband number six, and Blaise seemed rather hostile towards her. The unspoken implication was that the first five had died. Harry wasn't completely clear on what wizarding marriage entailed, but it seemed an unusual way of doing things. The fact that there were still adult wizards _left_ suggested this was not the norm.

Harry learned very little about Theodore, but Hermione was a font of information. Her parents weren't witches or wizards, a fact which turned into a discussion with Harry about the terms 'magical' and 'non-magical', as contrasted with 'muggle'. After all, goblins weren't witches or wizards either, and nor were many other magical peoples. This new mention of Harry's background opened the floodgates for everyone to ask him about it. He was explaining to Blaise in exasperation that no, goblins didn't really _eat_ gold, when the door to the compartment opened.

* * *

Harry looked carefully at the girl who had appeared and slammed the door behind her. She was flushed, grimacing, and leaning against it for breath. Harry instinctively read what her expression would have meant for a goblin – suggesting she was openly regretting having lost a small sum in a bet – before remembering where he was. The girl had a similar skin tone to Blaise, but it was only a passing resemblance.

She blinked at them. "Hello. Sorry for bursting in like that. I just managed to escape my sister's claws. Er, can I hide here for a while?"

Blaise gestured grandiosely to a seat. When she offered her hand he twisted it flat and brushed his lips against it, making her blush. "Good morning. I'm Blaise. Feel free to seek sanctuary from any sisters here."

"Yes, sanctuary sounds right. She wants to do everything with me and doesn't let me get a word in edgewise. Thanks, I'm Padma."

The girl sat down next to Hermione, and everybody else leaned across to shake her hand and introduce themselves.

"You're _really_ Harry Potter?"

Harry wondered if this was going to get annoying. He ignored the gasped question. "Why are you hiding from your own sister?"

Padma frowned. "She's my twin. And we... don't see eye-to-eye, really. But I don't think she realises that. Parvati wants to be Sorted into Gryffindor, is excited about exploring the castle and seeing real live ghosts... well, real ghosts, anyway... and has spent more time fussing with her hair than preparing for Hogwarts. She's so- so _noisy _about it all."

"Oh? What have you done to prepare for Hogwarts?"

"Once we had learned our letters and numbers properly, my parents let us practise some things. Mainly more schoolwork, but..." Padma rummaged in her trunk until she found her wand.

She held it up, bit her lip, and then said slowly, "_Tranquilla illusionari amplexus décora._" After a few seconds, a small butterfly flickered into existence on the tip of her wand. It had one ragged turquoise wing and the other mottled black. The girl frowned, shook her wand, and spoke the incantation again, more carefully. Now both wings were whole, and a faint silvery-green colour. She tried a third time, and a much larger butterfly appeared in scintillating colours. It took off from her wand-tip and began to flutter around the room.

"Where did you find that spell? I'm sure that's not in the _Standard Book of Spells_! Can you show me how to cast it?" Hermione already had her wand out and was trying to mimic the movements.

Padma beamed proudly. "My mother taught it to me..."

Harry caught the butterfly in his cupped hands when it flitted nearby. It felt prickly, but he could tell it wasn't real. The wings continued to gently flutter even when they had to pass straight through his fingers to do so.

Interesting. He held the butterfly in one hand and made the revealing-sign, _Ha'gplaz_, frowning at how little it told him. He muttered a different goblin-charm. Apparently the butterfly was made of a dozen simple two-dimensional shapes, interacting with each other to give the illusion of form and shifting colours. Its prickly legs were only a small sensation charm tacked into the middle of it.

Harry sat back and began to prod at the web of spellwork, using little pulses of his own magic to shift bits of the spell around. He grimaced in amusement as the butterfly suddenly destabilised, becoming a mess of fluttering triangles and bright fractal patterns. The roiling colours were nauseating to look at as the charm continued to beat what used to be its wings, out of synchrony with itself, so he banished the threads of magic holding it together. It faded away into the air.

Harry realised that he had heard a gasp, and looked up. Neville was staring, and Blaise was watching him with undisguised curiosity.

"Y-you can do _wandless_ magic?" Neville said, mouth hanging open.

Oops. _Blood and slag_, he had just that morning had a warning against using goblin magic in public. Harry felt himself begin to blush.

Hermione stopped conjuring butterflies and turned to look at him. She had conjured a small swarm in the few minutes since she had learned the spell, and they faded away as she stopped paying attention to them.

"That's not possible," she scoffed. "Casting spells wandlessly is _very_ advanced. I doubt we'll be learning it before our last year in school. You can't really, can you, Harry?"

Harry flashed her a self-deprecating sneer. It seemed to alarm her, so he stopped. "Goblin magic is very different from wizard spells. We – I mean, they use three different forms of charms, none of which wizards would recognise."

They seemed interested, so Harry continued, ticking them off on his fingers. "Enchantments, which are intrinsically woven into items while they are being crafted. Glyph magic, which is tied to runes and sigils and can either be temporary or permanent. Goblin-charms, which are subtle and cumulative, drawing more and more magic from the environment instead of draining the caster. I used a goblin-charm, so I didn't need a wand."

"Oh, goblins can't use those, can they?" Hermione said thoughtfully. "They're _banned_." She looked inordinately pleased with herself for knowing this. Harry just stared at her.

Blaise coughed into his hand. "So can you use all of those types of magic? Are they really that different from the spells we might learn?"

Harry thought carefully, recalling which things the goblin-oath would let him say. "Well... no, I haven't learned anywhere near what I could from my – from the goblin sorcerers. I have a decent knowledge of the signs and marks, but I can't do much with them that I couldn't do better with other charms. I _have_ learned Brother Häppälon's Elementary Enchanting, but that's only useful for increasing the durability and tensile strength of things like wood, leather and base metals. I might be able to _help_ a master with preparing complex enchantments, though."

Hermione continued to use the spell to conjure butterflies as she listened, improving on their forms. Harry's explanation was cut short as the whistle sounded, making everyone jump, and the swarm died away again.

Neville, sitting next to the window, looked equal parts excited and ill. "I- I guess we'll be off soon, huh. I can hardly believe it."

The door slid open at that moment and a chubby boy peered cautiously inside. "Oh – I'm sorry – first years, too?"

"Yes," said Padma and Hermione together. The boy glanced around at the compartment. "I'm terribly sorry – I hesitate to ask, it's just it seems like everywhere's full already, and the older students don't want anybody sitting with them, and the train is due to depart soon-"

Another whistle and the carriage lurched.

Guessing that the boy was actually asking whether he could sit with them, Harry looked around the compartment. "I think we could make room."

Theodore, sitting in the corner opposite Neville, sighed.

Blaise slid towards the quiet boy. "Don't be uncouth, Theodore. Budge up." Then Harry shuffled further along towards Blaise until the newcomer could sit down.

"Much obliged, chaps. Ernie Macmillan," he said, offering his hand to Hermione and Padma across from him first, then standing up again to shake hands with Neville, Theodore and Blaise, before turning to Harry and gasping.

"You're not- are you..." his eyes seemed to be fixed on Harry's scar.

"Harry James Potter. Is this going to be a problem?" There was a clattering as the train began to steam out of the station. Beyond the windows, parents waved and owls swarmed. A sliver of bright blue became visible, making Harry shiver as usual.

"Oh – not – is that where..." Ernie's voice died to a hush as he stared at the jagged mark. "_It happened?_"

Goblins were pragmatic. It was normal amongst them to wear scars proudly if they were acquired in some exciting or important way. Scars acquired through stupidity or thoughtlessness were covered up or magically healed, being marks of shame. Harry wasn't certain whether either applied to his, so he usually just ignored it. That wasn't going to be a viable strategy on the surface world, obviously.

"Yes, that's from the night Voldemort came to kill my birth parents, succeeded, and was driven off somehow."

Theodore, Blaise and Ernie all jerked a little at the name. Opposite them, Padma remained placid, while Neville squeaked out loud. Hermione asked, "driven off? He was killed, Harry. The books say even his body was destroyed."

"I don't doubt that some books do say that," Harry said carefully. "The _facts_ the books present, once you pare away the extrapolation, are that ash of human origin and burned robes were left on the floor, the house was destroyed, and there were no witnesses to any of it. And, of course, I have a scar, yes? Yes. We can hardly drawn any conclusions from that."

There was an awkward silence. Hermione was about to reply when Blaise deliberately cut across her. "We're probably going to have people beating a line to our compartment once word gets around that you're here. Just an idle observation."

Theodore scowled.

"Do you think we should lock and barricade the doors?" Blaise continued lightly, as if asking about the weather. "Is that what you normally do, or is there some other protocol?"

"I've never been on the surface in public as myself," Harry said. "I didn't think it would be this bad." Ernie blushed a little, and stopped staring at him.

"Really?" Blaise said. "I knew you were at least _reclusive_, given that you turn back everyone's owls. But... no, come to think of it, there _would_ have been a considerable ruckus if you made a public appearance. Like that press conference a month ago, there were some pictures of you in the paper. The Prophet made a feast of it for days, even with everything else that was going on. My mother was bitterly disappointed she wasn't invited to attend. It was quite funny to watch, she damaged a lot of furniture."

Harry frowned, holding up his palm. "Hold. I turn back everyone's owls?"

Theodore leaned around Blaise. Apparently he _had_ been listening, and now his dark eyes were fixed on Harry. "I'd imagine all the old pureblood families have tried to contact you. There are a number of annual functions, possible endorsements to be made, alliances and contacts... are you saying you didn't know that mail doesn't reach you?"

Harry shook his head, considering. "Filius had to bring me my Hogwarts letter by hand, I know that..."

Zabini nodded. "My mother wrote to you once, on some concocted excuse, but the letter came back unopened. We assumed it was Dumbledore's doing, or that of his followers."

"Ahhh, _rocks fall_. Yes, I suppose it makes sense: owls can't enter Underfoot, that would be a major security concern. I've only ever had an owl find me once in my life, and that was while I was in one of the Gringotts offices. Someone wanted to buy the right to use my name for a cauldron-cleansing potion, or something. My foster-father took care of it... in hindsight, that sort of thing should have been much more common."

That did shine a new light on the geode. Harry was still trying to think of the consequences when Padma spoke.

"Well, I don't know if it's funny or creepy that you've never been able to get your mail, but you should see to it that people know you're not deliberately shunning them."

Blaise was nodding in agreement. "I could probably see that word gets around, if you like. Of course, it'll mean that my mother starts writing to you again." The boy made a face.

"Okay." Harry hesitated. "I've heard that Hogwarts has mail wards, though. I don't know what they do. It's possible they only let things through from family."

Hermione looked concerned. "That doesn't sound right. Mail should be private. But... no, no I'm sure that's not the case. _Hogwarts: A History_ says that all owls entering the grounds are automatically screened for curses, but cannot be otherwise tampered with except with the Headmaster's direct approval. That's Headmaster Dumbledore! He's the greatest Light wizard there ever was, it's not like _he_ would interfere with the owl post."

"Jolly right," said Ernie.

Blaise and Theodore, though, made little synchronised choking noises.

"What?" demanded Hermione. Padma looked at the two boys in puzzlement.

Blaise sighed. "Everyone _I_ know say that Dumbledore's gone completely off his rocker. It's not surprising, he's about three hundred years old. Who knows _what_ he might do?"

"And he's done a lot of questionable stuff in the past," Theodore added darkly.

"No! Like what?" Hermione asked. She, Neville and Ernie seemed rather upset, while Padma was a little pool of calm.

"My step-father says he's favouritist, overly lenient, lets government become bloated, and stifles intellectual endeavours," said Blaise primly. "He takes more and more books from the Hogwarts library every year, helps the Ministry restrict more and more spells, and at the same time votes for lighter sentencing in the Wizengamot. As well as higher taxes to fund unnecessary welfare programs."

"He's the apple of everyone's eye for defeating Grindelwald," Theodore added, "But he uses his position in the ICW to push foreign agendas on Britain. Only the ones he chooses, mind. We're signatory to about half the international wizarding laws, and it's exactly the half that Dumbledore chooses."

Harry hummed thoughtfully, ignoring the noises of outrage Ernie was making. "A family friend told me he didn't think he was a _threat_, but he does have three extremely powerful positions, doesn't he? I wonder how many checks are on the powers of the Hogwarts Headmaster, Supreme Mugwump and Head Warlock."

Hermione stared at him. "Harry, you can't believe all this! Haven't you read about Dumbledore? He was the only one that- that You Know Who was really scared of!"

Harry shrugged, wondering why she thought that at all relevant to the conversation. "I'm …what do you call it? Ah, reserving judgement. I've never met him, yes? I don't know much more than what my foster-parents say about him."

"Well, what do they say?"

Harry opened his mouth, and found his tongue refused to move.

"Uuuugh. Hmbleh. Argh. ...Huh. Looks like that's a goblin secret. I didn't know, interesting. I can't talk about it," he added at their inquisitive looks.

"Dumbledore's a Light wizard, and he's against Dark wizards, and that's that," Ernie said, firm in his convictions. "He's not just a force for good, he's, he's practically _the_ force for good."

"I've wondered about that distinction all year," Harry said. "I was working with the Underfoot healers, and they use all sorts of spells that some of my books would call 'Dark'. It's not very well-defined, is it? Or perhaps it is, here on the surface. I'll have to look up some more when I get back home, there's probably all sorts of things in the Libraries which your Ministry wouldn't allow in British wizarddom. Especially if what Blaise said about the Hogwarts library is correct."

Ernie, whose face had betrayed more and more horror as Harry went on, stood up abruptly and heaved his trunk off the rack, narrowly missing Padma. He pointed a finger dramatically at Harry.

"_You_ are treading dangerously close to the Darkness! I- I think you've been corrupted! You said it yourself, who knows what actually happened when you got that scar? I don't want you hanging around me, understand?"

The boy stormed off, muttering about dark wizardry.

Harry sat with his mouth open, and then grinned and joined Blaise and Padma in laughter. Theodore and Neville shrugged at each other from opposite sides of the compartment. Hermione just looked shocked for a while, before her mouth set into a grim line.

* * *

"Wow!"

They looked around. A gangly red-haired boy was lingering in the doorway, gawping openly at Harry.

"Wow," he said again, "Harry Potter?"

Harry fought an urge to put his head in his hands.

"Cor! It is you! And that's-" the boy broke off, staring at the scar on Harry's forehead as if he wanted to reach out and stroke it. Instead, he sat down next to Harry in the seat Ernie had just vacated. "I'm Ron Weasley. Harry Potter, huh? How could that boy think _you're_ dark? You killed the most terrible dark lord ever!"

It was by now fairly clear to Harry what he was going to be facing when most people met him. Well, he might have to test a few ways of dealing with it. Here was a good start: "What? You think I killed the Pharaoh Ptelmyptes?"

The redhead Ron looked bewildered.

Harry sighed. "You were talking about Voldemort, yes?"

This elicited another squeak from Neville and a look of awe from Ron.

Harry shook his head, and began to paraphrase one of his books. "A couple of thousand years ago, Ptelmyptes personally killed seven slaves each day and ate their hearts, every day of his ninety-six year reign. His armies slaughtered many millions more. He and his court created the Veshnepi, a race of curse-using lion demons made out of human eyeballs and nervous tissue. They often pitted them for fun against another of his monstrosities, the Eightfold Soul-eater of Bel-Sarlacc."

"That's not in _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_," Hermione muttered. Harry grimaced, noticing Neville had gone whiter than a cave-fish.

"Well, records of it are – sketchy? That is the right word, yes?"

They nodded.

"Sketchy." He nodded decisively. "Some writers believe it was a cross between some huge species of hydra, now extinct, and a catoblepas, preserved with mummification rituals. They uncovered burial urns with – _urnakgot_ – er, pictograms saying it was capable of tearing out the souls of eight victims at once, then digesting those souls over thousands of years. Not that I believe that, but there must be some basis in fact."

Harry glanced at Ron.

"If you only meant to talk about European dark lords, Grindelwald was easily the worst. Him and his cohorts killed almost as many people as Ptelmyptes, and in a much shorter time, yes? His legacy was the current form of inferus, a creature that can multiply itself by taking a victim. He also made things called 'brain bottles' which I have only read references about, as nobody seemed to dare to write down what they actually _were_. And the Dementors swarmed to him like tunnel roaches, of course. Some claim that he actually created them."

Hermione looked like she was going to be sick. Blaise was looking extremely interested.

"In second place for Europe would be Vlad the Impaler, a sorcerer who used human murders – sacrifices – to keep himself alive for four hundred years. Some of those centuries he spent taking feral wampyrs from Russia and blood-sucking butternut squash from Austria, and breeding them into the deadly modern vampires."

Neville was gripping the edge of the seat tightly. Harry kept an eye on him, in case he had to stop. Ron's mouth hung wide open.

"Then there was Baba Yaga, who was a mass-murderer on a much, er, smaller scale. That's... sorry, that sounded terrible, in context. She ate children alive, you see, and tortured their parents with constant nightmares and visions of what she had done. If you count the people she drove to death, she probably killed more than Vlad."

"How do you know all this?" Blaise asked curiously. "And you're lucky that Ernie idiot already left, by the way."

Harry clasped his hands together, looking serious.

"I read a lot. My point was: Voldemort is, at most, the fourth-most 'terrible' dark lord in European history, the second-most 'terrible' dark lord in _recent_ European history, and I would be surprised if he was anywhere at all on the 'most terrible dark lords ever' scale. I mean, I don't doubt that he was powerful. I just..."

"Bragging about your victory, Potter? It's most unbecoming, you know." Draco slid the door fully open and stepped in, giving a slight nod to Theodore, who ignored him completely. There were two larger boys behind Draco, but no room for them in the already-full compartment. "Funny thing... I just heard someone going around telling people that you're a big, scary Dark wizard."

"And so naturally it piqued your interest," Blaise said snidely.

"Perhaps a little. But downplaying the Dark Lord's power seems to _me_ to be a foolish idea. British wizards are many times more powerful than any mouldy old mages from ancient history. Our blood is simply stronger. Or at least, those of us who don't breed with muggles."

"If you had bothered to ask, you would know that I was correcting a misconception about the most _terrible_ wizards, not the most _powerful_," Harry said, annoyed. "What is your basis for saying that your 'blood is stronger', anyway?"

"The _Malfoys_, unlike some, are fully pure-blooded, and therefore our power is-"

"No, I meant, where is the data backing up your assumption? How do you know a wizarding family produces more powerful wizards, on average, than muggleborns? What studies support the idea?"

Draco paused, and then began, "Our blood is, as a matter of simple fact, not _diluted_. We are hugely more distanced from the grubby muggles! My father-"

Harry sighed. "No, I thought so. You don't have any support for your arguments, and you just squawk your father's words like a trained slithersucker. If Lucius said the earth's crust was made of dried fish, would you be repeating that, too?"

Draco coloured, and the burly boys framing the doorway behind him scowled in concert. "Don't you talk about my father! His blood is a dozen time more pure than that of any Boy-Who-Lived-With-Goblins!"

Harry smiled, beginning to enjoy himself. "I've met your father, you know. He stares a lot. I never got to see his blood. Did you know that there have only been five true, home-grown British dark lords since the founding of Hogwarts? Of those, only the first two are definitively known to have been what you would call 'pureblood'. Of course, according to Fi- Professor Flitwick, many more wizards _would_ have come from wizarding families back then. Just sheer statistics."

Harry's smile widened to show his teeth. "The fifth one was Voldemort, of course. We don't know about his ancestry, since he seemed to appear from nowhere. He claimed to be descended from Slytherin. More likely he was just some – sick French muggleborn with illusions of grandeur."

"Delusions," Hermione corrected quietly.

"Muggleborn?" squealed Draco.

"Sick?" puzzled one of the boys behind him.

"French?" grunted the other.

"Well, I could be wrong, but the name 'Voldemort' sounds remarkably like it came from the French section of my genealogy books. Although it does sound a bit trollish, too," said Harry, smiling vaguely as people continued to flinch at the name.

"I think it means, um..." Hermione's lips moved silently. "Flies from death," she finished.

"In trollish?" Harry asked, surprised. "Wouldn't that be, um, _Gr'versh_... _Gr'takver_... _Gr'tak_ something, I think..."

"No, in French."

Draco scowled at both of them. "Shut up! What would a mudblood like you know about the Dark Lord?"

Harry was having a hard time not laughing. "So, his name means 'coward'? That's just... well... Anyway, yes, it sounds like an assumed name, so I doubt he is really descended from Slytherin, yes?"

He grew a little more sombre. "And given all the things he is supposed to have done, it is pretty clear he was – what is the phrase? Ill mentally. Hence my saying 'sick'."

Draco raised his wand, but Harry whispered three words and a small, greenish fireball appeared in his hand. It was just maggot-light, not even warm to the touch, but it made the other boy back off abruptly.

The door banged shut behind him.

Ron Weasley, looking pale underneath his freckles, turned slowly to Harry. "That was bloody brilliant."

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ It should come as absolutely no surprise that I couldn't just stick to _one_ chapter on the Hogwarts Express. I suppose it wouldn't be fair to stop it here, so I've posted the next chapter too.

→ I had a lot of fun writing both of them, anyway. They just expanded beyond my control from five or six pages of notes I've been jotting down all year. I hope you enjoyed this one, and that you'll read and review them both.


	18. Chapter 18

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 18**

* * *

Harry realised the other six people in the compartment were staring at the false flames still dancing in his hand, so he let them vanish, and glanced around at faces, thinking he might have done something wrong.

Neville looked out of his depth. Padma was considering his open palm. Nott had gone back to staring out the window. Blaise seemed to be enjoying some private joke. Ron was gawping.

Hermione ...was asking, in a small, trembling voice: "Am I going to be okay? As a muggleborn? Oh, I knew I wouldn't be good enough for Hogwarts! That beastly boy seemed so sure-"

"Professor Flitwick tells me that my mother was muggleborn and was the best Charms student he ever knew," Harry said quietly to her. He was trying to think of something to reassure her further when Ron asked loudly, "So what's your favourite Quidditch team, Harry? Mine's the Cannons, I just know their luck's going to turn around this year. You reckon you'll get on a team at school?"

Harry frowned at the trampling of the girl's obviously deep-seated worries.

"I've never played Quidditch or seen it played, and don't particularly want to," he said, more sharply than he usually might have. "I read part of a book about it, and can't see the point. It results in nothing lasting, nothing of _worth_. It's probably not much good for exercise. And I can imagine a hundred things I'd rather do for entertainment."

"You- what- I- I don't believe it! Quidditch is the best game in the world!" Ron said angrily. "You can't say things like that!"

Harry shrugged. "If you enjoy watching burly men swoop around on hard rods, touching balls to shafts and beating things and chasing each other's tails, that's fine. It's not my concern, yes? Yes."

"You're weird," Ron said shortly. He stood and left without another word.

Padma was having an inexplicable fit of giggles, and although Theodore still appeared to be ignoring them in favour of the view out the window, he was smiling thinly.

"Ah, glorious room," said Blaise happily as the door slammed. "Move over again, Harry." Blaise sprawled his legs out on the seat. "Capital. That's three for three – it seems you have quite a knack for offending people. Maybe you should make use of it to clear everyone else out so we get a whole row of seats each?"

"I like Quidditch, but I'm not looking forward to riding a broomstick," Neville said glumly, staring at his feet. "I'll probably manage to break it or something."

"I got a bit sick at first when I was on a flying carpet," Harry said. "I'm not used to so much... sky, I suppose. After living in the tunnels."

"Oh yes... goblins live in holes in the ground, don't they? I didn't think of that." Padma stared closely at Harry. "It makes sense, though. You're almost as pale as that Malfoy boy."

"I'd be completely white, not just pale, if I didn't take a nutrient potion," Harry said, deciding to ignore the phrase 'holes in the ground'. "Or more likely completely dead. Humans apparently can't live without sunlight." Then he grinned widely. "Hmmm, I suppose I don't have to drink it any more. Great!"

"It must have tasted pretty bad, huh?" Neville commiserated. "When I broke m-my ankle the first time, I had to drink some really vile stuff."

"Yes. This was like... moth grubs and raw chestnuts."

"Um. You don't really know what moth grubs taste like, do you?"

* * *

Once the commotion and cries of disgust had died down, Harry noticed Hermione Granger was still looking downcast.

"Hermione." He caught her attention. "You _will_ do well, assuming you strive. You said you tried some spells and they worked, yes? There will probably be a number of people in the same situation as you. And they probably won't even have read all their textbooks."

Padma blinked. "Even _I_ haven't read all the textbooks. We only got them a month ago, and I know for a fact that my sister hasn't opened a single one."

"I have been led to believe that textbooks _exist_," Blaise drawled, "and I remember a certain number of strange, rectangular objects being packed into my trunk, but I certainly couldn't tell you what they actually were. I only noted in passing that I will not be lacking for fire-lighters."

Harry furrowed his brow. "Really? You haven't read anything? Do you not know any magic, then?"

Blaise looked amused. "Well, my sister – half-sister, really – tried to teach me a bunch of spells. The problem is, none of them were really exciting enough for me to remember. Oh, she hounds me terribly about that, but it's just not in my nature to do things that are boring." He drew his wand, and coughed into his fist. "For your edification, I shall attempt... what was it called? Eringya's Surprising Bouquet, I think."

He twiddled his wand over his closed left hand, and pronounced the incantation. His hesitant rising intonation made it sound like a question. Whatever the spell was meant to do, it failed spectacularly, leaving his hand holding a bunch of charred stems, which quickly dissolved into ash.

Theodore applauded: two slow claps.

"It's not very good, is it?" Hermione said primly.

"It _failed_, Ms Granger." Blaise rolled his eyes.

"If that's a temporary fixed-form conjuration spell, and it looks like it should be, the textbook says that you need to start with a twirl of your wand, _not_ a wiggle." She demonstrated with her own wand. "And say the words much more firmly."

Blaise sighed, and repeated the charm. This time a wilted thistle, a rotten mushroom and some sort of weedy surface flower appeared in his left hand. He quickly dropped them, but they turned to ash before they hit the floor. The swarthy boy looked ruefully down at the mess.

"As amusing as this is, I believe I shall turn to my next trick: Scolorid's Scintillating Scribbling," Blaise said doubtfully. He murmured some words, holding his wand between thumb and forefinger, and traced it through the air. The wand left a faint yellow glowing streak. The corner of his mouth turned up, and he quickly scribbled his initials. The letters flared in thin air, fading away almost before he had finished.

Theodore applauded again, this time adding a third slow clap for good measure.

"Feel better?" Blaise asked Hermione in dry tones.

She nodded. "_I_ managed to cast a charm at home from the Grade Two spellbook, so I suppose so, yes."

"Can you show us?" Harry asked.

She frowned. "Well, I don't have a cabbage here. The spell is _Brassica Oleracea Ambulata_, but conjuring a cabbage and holding it in existence for long enough to make it follow you around would be very advanced magic."

"Cabbage." Harry thought carefully, ignoring Padma's undignified snort. "That's a surface vegetable, right?"

Surprised faces nodded at him.

"I... see. Why would you want to make a cabbage follow you around?"

"Oh, _I_ don't know," Hermione huffed. "There was a whole section of the second-year volume dedicated to making fruits and vegetables do strange things – sing and dance and clap their hands, and so on."

"Clap their hands," repeated Blaise weakly.

"Something like that. Fine, then." Hermione raised her wand. "This is the Luminescent Companion spell from Woddeley's book, which Professor McGonagall recommended when she took me to Diagon Alley."

She cleared her throat and said carefully, "_Igniti amicum_." A tiny, faint blue light buzzed out of her wand, orbitted her head three times, gibbered strangely, and disappeared.

This exhibit garnered another three claps from Theodore.

"Is that what it is meant to do?" Harry asked carefully.

"Yes... I can't sustain it for very long, it's meant to provide light for a few minutes, but I think I just need more practise."

"Probably." Padma nodded. "It may be something like this one, which is the first charm I learned from my mother, more than a year ago. When I started, I didn't get any cherry blossoms at all and I was too tired to try again that day."

With this cryptic remark, she drew her wand, which she had tucked into her topknot after conjuring butterflies earlier, and raised it above her head with eyes closed.

"_Fusce flores floruit_." Hermione leaned away from the other girl in surprise as delicate pink and orange flames sprouted around her and danced in intricate patterns. Flower petals were cascading from the tip of her wand and vanishing into the flames. After a few seconds, Padma lowered her wand.

Theodore gave her _five_ claps, quite fast. It sounded almost genuine.

"Well done," said Blaise, then turned to the weedy boy next to him. "Maybe you should spend less time with the sarcastic applause and more time showing us what _you_ can do?"

Theodore scowled. "Did I say I had learned any magic?"

"You've been acting quite the hypocrite if you haven't."

The boy shook his head and drew a rather stubby white wand from his sleeve. "_Frigida grisald tactus_," he incanted quietly.

He slid the wand back into his sleeve. Blaise stared at him in amusement. "And what did that dyea_uaaargh!_"

Theodore had reached over and grabbed his wrist briefly.

Blaise jerked back from the boy's grasp with a deep shudder, breathing deeply. Beads of sweat had appeared on his face, and he immediately examined the pale mark that had appeared on his arm. "Merlin's nipples, man! What-" he coughed, and regained his composure. "Where did you learn that?"

Theodore scowled and shrugged, turning back to the window.

Harry watched the pale patch on Blaise's wrist begin to fade away. "What did it actually do?"

"His hand... it was _so cold_. So _unnaturally_ cold. Like... I can't even describe it."

Padma snorted. "Cold? You poor thing. What about you, Harry?"

Harry cocked his head, wondering what to show them. Then he rummaged in his pockets until he found the charcoal he had been drawing with that morning, and slid his wand out of his sleeve.

"_Mutum ullus_."

The charcoal shard turned crystalline underneath his wand, and then slowly formed itself into a perfect sphere of quartz the size of a large marble.

Harry paused for breath and cast the spell again. "_Mutum ullus._"

The sphere reformed slowly into a particularly interesting burrowing insect whose image had been hovering in his mind all day. The girls made noises of disgust, so he cast the spell a third time, trying for something a little more difficult.

The insect darkened as it transformed, becoming a copper butterfly. It looked similar to those Hermione and Padma had been making earlier, but solid and completely inert. Harry tucked his wand back into the loop in his sleeve and examined it for flaws.

Hermione reached out hesitantly, and took it when he nodded. "That's amazing. It's not turning back, either. That must have been a very strong transfiguration, Harry."

"It should last for five minutes at least. Copper is tricky, though. If I'd left it as quartz it would stay for an hour or more, but it would be very brittle."

"An hour? The books don't expect any transfiguration to last that long at our level."

Harry shrugged, and turned to look at Neville, wondering what spells the last member of their impromptu group had learned. Neville was biting his lip, and his wand was not in evidence.

"I- I never learned any magic at all," he whispered, apparently on the brink of tears. "My Gran h-h-had me tutored in everything else, but they never thought I was g-good enough to start learning before Hogwarts. I only just got given a wand. I'm not going to be any good at all."

There was a short silence. Blaise seemed about to say something, but then leaned back and just regarded Neville from beneath half-closed eyes.

"Neville, take out your wand," said Harry firmly. "Hold it like this."

He held the position until Neville had wiped his nose on his sleeve, located his wand, and raised it. "Now focus your attention on the wand tip. Hold it steady as you can. We're going to learn the whistle charm. The incantation is _barba_ – that's two beats for _bar_, pronouncing the _r_ sound, and then one beat for _ba_. It should sound like this..."

* * *

Half an hour later, everybody but Theodore applauded when Neville first managed to produce a shrill note with the charm. Harry relaxed a little and left him to practise. There was something preying on his mind: what had Boris Scintillion dropped into his pocket that morning?

He took care to remove the packet surreptitiously, while Blaise, Padma and Hermione were busy discussing what their Hogwarts classes might be like. After all, a cursebreaker in the service of goblins might have given him _anything_.

As it turned out, it was a deck of cards taped shut with dull black tape.

"Oh, Exploding Snap?" asked Blaise, plucking it from his hands and raising his eyebrows. "Usually it's a pretty tame game, but this isn't a licensed deck, there's no stamp. Cool. Did you get somebody to charge it for you illegally, or is it just a really old pack, from before the regulations?"

"What," said Harry carefully, "Is Exploding Snap?"

Hermione and Padma both shrugged at him. Blaise's eyes widened for a moment before he suddenly grinned. "Time for a hands-on lesson, I think."

* * *

"This is a _truly_ nonsensical game."

"Said the person with the lowest score."

"No, really," Harry said. "There's no point to it at - _squonk-buggering tunnel collapse!_" he finished in Gobbledegook as the card under his hand suddenly glowed with heat.

He had time to cover his face, and then the blast burned all the hairs off his forearms. He patted his scalp to make sure there weren't any stray embers.

"That-" he jabbed a finger, "that is exactly what I am talking about."

"Nobody likes a sore loser, Harry," said Padma sweetly, dealing herself three more cards from where she sat on the floor. Nott had remained sitting at the window opposite Neville, whose face was still glowing from having managed to cast his first spell with relative ease. The other four were on the compartment floor, with the deck of cards sitting in the middle of what was promising to be a permanent burn mark on the carpet. Blaise had his legs hooked up on one of the seats in what looked like an extremely uncomfortable position. Hermione was holding her cards dangerously close to her face.

She dropped them all, causing a muted explosion, when the compartment door clattered open.

"Oh! G'morning there! I was just out seeking adventure and heard the bangs and whistles." A heavily-built brunette girl stood in the doorway, wand dangling from one hand. She was wearing shorts, and Harry took in her scabbed knees and filthy shoes with what he imagined was roughly the same expression as her own, as she took in his singed face and famous scar.

Fortunately for his mood, she declined to comment on the latter, instead exclaiming: "Oooh! Exploding snap! Deal me in?"

"Very well." Harry stood up and moved to one of the seats. "Good timing, since I believe I just lost."

"Yes, and quite thoroughly," drawled Blaise, as the new girl sat down in Harry's place without another glance at him. "I am Blaise, these two ladies are Hermione and Padma, the crispy-robed lad you just replaced is Harry, the noisy chap in the corner there is Neville, and the dour little one opposite him who's glaring at me now that I've drawn attention to him, sulky oik that he is, is Theodore."

"Jan." She accepted her cards with apparent glee. "Jan Runcorn, and fair warning, if you try to call me 'Janet' I'll skin you alive."

"...If you say so." Blaise looked disturbed.

Padma just snorted behind her cards. "Can't skin be magically regrown?"

Hermione looked thoughtful. "You're going to end up losing some anyway if that's a pair of threes you've got lying in wait."

Padma tilted her cards up to her face. "Cheater."

Harry listened to them talk about themselves, while Padma played out a game plan that apparently baffled even the veteran Snap player, Blaise.

Jan was from a wizarding family, but hadn't learned any magic as her parents didn't let her practise. In fact, they had kept a close eye on her ever since she used her mother's wand to grow an extra head on the cat. But they hadn't found out that she was sneaking down to the kitchen a few nights a week to 'practise potions'.

"...and long story short, I'm on lung-scouring and capillary-growing elixirs for the next year or so," she added cheerily, throwing down a single card. Blaise stared at it, back up at her, and bowed gracefully out of the game.

Shortly after, Jan lost when she set off a cascade of detonations in an otherwise good hand, but then Padma beat Hermione to a standstill, amassing most of the rest of the pack of cards in the process.

"You're an old hand, then?" Blaise asked, scrubbing at a patch of soot on his leg.

"No, I've never played before."

"Really?" Jan's eyes boggled. "More power to your hand, then. It's a cracking good pack, too. Whose is it?"

"Mine," Harry said, looking up. He had absconded with one of the cards earlier and was poking at it with his wand, trying to see how it worked. So far he had only made it char at the edges.

"Harry, right?" Jan grinned. "And it's either Harry Potter or his twin brother of the same name, I'm guessing from that scar. Good show, that. Two of my uncles were killed by You Know Who's followers, trying to protect my family home."

"I... I'm sorry. Did it work?" was all Harry could think to ask.

"Nah. They burned it to cinders, but it gave my aunt time to get out with me and my cousin, so that's something. And my dad took one of them down a few months later. I've got his ear to prove it. In a jar." This was all delivered in the same cheerful tone.

Theodore gave a tiny cough that sounded like "Gryffindor."

The thickset girl seemed to pick up on it. "Prob'ly. Most of my family have been, except my aunt who went to Beauxbatons, and a few Australians on my mom's side. What Houses are you lot going to get Sorted into? You _are_ all first years too, right?"

"I'm hoping for Gryffindor too," Hermione said excitedly, "or maybe Ravenclaw. I don't know how it's done, but Professor McGonagall said they always Sort fairly. _Hogwarts: A History_ mentions the Hat of Gryffindor but doesn't really explain how the ceremony works. Do you think we have to pull a rabbit out of it?"

"Professor Flitwick-" Harry began, but had to wait for Blaise to stop laughing. "Professor Flitwick said that Houses were very important, and told me what each of them valued, but wouldn't answer my questions about the Sorting. I think it's meant to be a secret."

"That's what my dad said," agreed Jan.

Blaise smirked. "_I_ know how it's done. I wrested the secret from my brother for the grand sum of ten Sickles."

"Oh, tell us?" Padma asked.

"I'll tell you..." he looked directly at Harry. "If _you_ tell us what it was really like to grow up with goblins."

Harry frowned. "I can't tell you everything, you know. There's secrets to protect. I'm magically bound."

"A magic oath? I wouldn't want that hanging over my head. Well, tell what you can, then. I definitely want to hear a story like this, my life is far too lacking in entertainment."

"Fine. But tell us about the Sorting first, yes?"

Blaise cleared his throat, looking around to make sure he had everyone's attention. "The Hat of Gryffindor is an ancient artefact, enchanted by Godric with a portion of his wisdom and charisma. A student only has to put it on, and the Hat will read their mind and find what House they are most suited to."

"Creepy," Padma muttered.

"So it'll be able to see what you really think. I'd imagine it partly depends what you want out of school," Blaise finished, swinging his knees up until he was taking up most of the seat. Harry pushed the boy's shiny black shoes away from his face. "Personally, I'm just looking for anything to keep me from boredom."

"If I think about brave things while I'm wearing it, do you think that will influence it? I hope it puts me in Gryffindor, anyway," Hermione said. "Like Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall."

"And Ambrosine the Ambiguous. Oh, and Sirius Black," Padma noted.

"Wait, I know that name. Yeah, my dad said he was Gryffindor to the bones," Jan said into the silence. "What a bastard, eh? Right, Harry?"

Hermione's eyes slid to Harry and then away again. "I... read about Sirius Black in _Modern Magical History_. I don't want to be like _him_. But Professor McGonagall hinted I should be in Gryffindor!" she wailed.

Harry snorted. "Professor Flitwick expects to see me in Ravenclaw, too, but I doubt he'll waste away and die if I'm not. I'd _like_ Ravenclaw, of course. They have a private library in their common room, apparently."

Hermione's eyes seemed to light up at this.

Padma shook her head. "Reading! Is that all you're interested in? Better than Hufflepuff, I suppose."

"I bet I'm in Hufflepuff," Neville said gloomily. "My Gran's going to be so disappointed. She w-wants me in Gryffindor like my... my dad," he finished quietly.

"Who cares what other people want? And I am quite sure you would do well in Hufflepuff, Neville. Consider how hard you toiled to get that charm working." Harry smiled viciously. "Actually, I would rather like to be in Hufflepuff, myself. I don't want to be surrounded by lazy people."

Neville stuttered something.

Padma blinked. "If you say so, Harry. I'm shooting for Slytherin, maybe Ravenclaw. Anything but Gryffindor, anyway." She glanced around. "What about you, Theodore?"

The thin boy turned away from the window. "Slytherin," he said shortly, then turned back again.

"Chatty," said Blaise with amusement.

"I suppose you are hoping for Gryffindor, Blaise, since you only care for excitement and adventure and really wild things?"

"I care for _amusement_, Miss Patil," the boy corrected, looking annoyed. "Exploding Snap and tales about goblins are one thing. Peril, uncouthness and general prig-headedness are quite another. I certainly do not want to risk life and limb on any foolish Gryffindor adventures. That would be distinctly _un_-amusing."

Hermione looked scandalised at the idea of dangerous adventures. "It's a school! What could possibly happen?"

"It's a school of _magic_. What possibly couldn't? Anyway, I don't think Gryffindor is in my nature. I'll enjoy any entertainment I can get, engineer it if necessary... but not make it."

Theodore mumbled something in the direction of the window.

"...And as Theodore so rightfully mutters, some of my relatives would slaughter me for Crup food if I didn't get into Slytherin. Particularly my mother."

"That _would_ be a shame," Padma said with a straight face.

"She's a mad bitch," Blaise said, without any particular inflection. "Ambitious as anything, though."

"Language!" Hermione gasped. Blaise just looked at her for a long moment with unreadable dark eyes, then turned to Harry.

"And now, I think you owe us a life story."

* * *

Harry shared what he could about Badluk and Sibilig and his goblin friends and life in Underfoot. He was compelled to bite his own tongue once when he infringed on secrets of the Brotherhood. That painful reminder prevented him doing it again, but there was still enough to keep him amused at the looks of amazement on faces of the other new students. Even Theodore asked a few pertinent questions.

Shortly after that a witch came around with a trolley of food, and Harry took the opportunity to expand his palate of wizarding food, buying enough for everyone to try. He couldn't get the hang of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, though, and gave up after five minutes of Blaise's mockery.

The rest of the food appeared to be actual... well, food. Although it was rather strange. The Cauldron Cakes were far too sweet for him. The Soylent Greenola bars were strange and gritty. Harry refused to even try an Every Flavour Bean after Neville sampled an orange-brown one and immediately ran for the bathrooms.

The Chocolate Frogs came with two parts: a confectionery frog, which Harry used an unweaving charm on with great interest until it unexpectedly melted, and a card with facts about the wizard Ptolemy. He compared the card to a Exploding Snap card under a variety of goblin spells, trying to ignore Blaise's loud speech about pointless academics and foolish half-cooked experimentation and bizarre, possibly genetic, inabilities to know what was interesting and what was not.

The rest of the journey was idled away, chatting. Padma taught Harry the butterfly spell, _tranquilla illusionari amplexus décora_. He was annoyed that it took him much longer than Hermione to master it, and he couldn't keep his concentration on many of the glamour butterflies before the earlier ones started to fade. Well, it was something to work on.

The Exploding Snap deck which Mr Scintillion had dropped in Harry's pocket was exhausted – only about two thirds of the cards remained, and those apparently needed time to recharge. Nobody took Jan up on her offers of an arm-wrestling tournament, so the girl with the skinned knees left to seek excitement elsewhere.

"A lady after your own heart," Padma joked to Blaise.

He sniffed. "Oh, please. I've never met anyone so... unrefined."

It took a while, but Harry managed to get a partial explanation of that expression out of Padma and Hermione. He was still a little confused; the heart was only an organ for pumping blood around the body, after all.

* * *

As the sun sank towards the horizon, Theodore left to find a bathroom, and came back changed into his Hogwarts robes, the strange grey tailcoat he had been wearing now folded neatly over his arm.

"I would suggest you do the same," he said, going back to his seat at the window.

Padma took out her robes, which were uppermost in her trunk, and pulled them on immediately. Blaise complained that he and Neville would have to take off at least an outer layer each, and that it simply wouldn't do to show their elbows with ladies present, and even if it _could_ be done, it _shouldn't_ be.

Hermione and Harry, already in their robes, shrugged, and found themselves hurried out into the corridor alongside Padma. Harry wasn't sure why Theodore was allowed to stay while the other two changed, but it might just have been too much effort for Blaise to throw him out too.

* * *

As the sky changed from dark blue to purple, the train began to slow. A tinny, disembodied voice informed them that they were approaching Hogwarts, and asked that they leave their luggage on the train, as it would be taken to the school separately.

Harry hesitated – his staff was in his shrunken trunk – but it wasn't as if he could take it in his pocket, and everyone was in the same situation. And what a situation... it suddenly seemed so much more terrifying and horrible than he had thought before. A distinct cold touched his heart, and he wondered why he was only beginning to feel nervous at this late stage. His eyes tracked a grey speck hovering over a lake far in the distance, and a truly horrid sensation grew within him, but it soon passed as the distant figure swooped away. He hoped that hadn't been what he thought it was.

They pulled into a station – "Hogsmeade," Blaise informed them – and spilled out onto the strange asymmetric cobblestones of the small platform, along with an excited crowd. The children poured around a trio of red-robed aurors like a stream around a boulder. The older students began moving towards a row of lit carriages in the distance, while a huge shape moved up the train, shouting hoarsely.

"Firs' years this way! Firs' years, come on now, over 'ere!"

Harry was still feeling ill-at-ease from seeing the spectre above the lake, and now felt a strange shudder go through him as he recognised this man. Rubeus Hagrid, probably half-giant, he recalled. He had fought below Gringotts, and had fought bravely but failed. A few memories of that day passed through Harry's mind, and he clenched his hands into fists.

The huge wizard was looking rather tired as he waded through the crowd in his greatcoat. There were dark rings under his eyes, but his bushy eyebrows drew together into a smile as he saw their little cluster.

"Firs' years! Young Harry Potter, right? Recognise yer! Well, over this way, follow me! Any more firs' years?"

The crowd of them followed Hagrid down a narrow, stony path, flanked on one side by an auror who marched next to a bright silver animal. It was strangely comforting to look upon the creature, and after a while Harry realised it must be a Patronus, the spell used to control Dementors.

He tugged on Blaise's sleeve. "What sort of animal is that?" he asked, jerking his thumb. The mammal looked vaguely familiar.

Blaise stopped in his tracks, making Harry bump into him. "What? You've never seen- oh. Oh, of course you've never seen a cow before." The boy shook his head and kept moving.

Harry stumbled once before he remembered to turn on the darksight charm on his glasses. Things swam into focus, and Hagrid's hurricane lantern ahead of them became painfully bright. All around were dense trees, and they were walking in the middle of a mob of young students, most looking frightened but a few whispering to each other. Harry blinked, looking back and forth until he realised he was seeing Padma in front of Blaise and someone who must be her twin sister on the other side of the track.

Just behind him was a thin boy with long hair and glasses, who smiled back when he saw Harry staring around. "Exciting, huh? I'm Terry."

"Harry," Harry replied, walking backwards for a few steps so that he could shake hands. His folly was rewarded when he tripped over a large rock, and several people stumbled into them before Terry had helped him up, obviously trying not to laugh.

"Yes, yes, alright," Harry said.

"Have you never walked on loose stones before? My brother used to take me hiking all the time. I hated it, of course..."

"I've walked on loose stones before," Harry confirmed dryly. Before he could speak more, Hagrid called back over his shoulder to the column of first years.

"We'll be comin' up ter Hogwarts soon. Yeh'll get yer firs' glimpse o' it in just a sec."

They rounded a corner, and there was a muted cry of "Oooooh!" from the students. After a moment, Terry muttered "It's only a model" under his breath, and grinned to himself.

Harry ignored the strange remark, looking up at Hogwarts. It was impressive, he had to admit. They stood on the edge of a vast lake, and the castle stretched above them, wider than a cavern block in Underfoot. The highest towers would have stretched halfway to the ceiling of Main Cavern, and that was _high_.

Then Hagrid was calling, "There's the boats, in yer go! No more than four to a boat, mind!"

Harry hurried forward beside the long-haired Terry, looking about for his friends. He had lost them when he stumbled, and they were nowhere in sight. Harry climbed into the closest of the small craft. A girl he didn't know was sitting at the front, staring up at the stars. Terry clambered after him, followed by a short, solid boy with close-cropped hair, who smiled nervously at each of them in turn.

"Alright you lot, everyone in a boat?" shouted Hagrid from the boat next to Harry. There was a resounding silence.

"Right so." He raised a pink umbrella which Harry recognised, looked at it blankly for a moment, then yelled "For'ard! Steady as she goes!"

The fleet of boats immediately began to scud across the still, dark surface of the lake. Harry gripped the side, breathing little clouds of huff and trying not to imagine how deep and cold it would be if he fell in. Of course, if there really were merpeople in there, he might be able to remember how to formulate a request for help before he drowned...

"Wayne Hopkins," the last boy in said, breaking into his thoughts.

Harry blinked and automatically offered his arm to clasp, quickly remembering himself and turning it into a proper Wizarding handshake. "Harry Potter."

The boy made a small noise of surprise. "Oh... nice to meet you."

"Terry Boot," added the long-haired boy, and then the girl at the front looked down at them. "Lilith Moon." She immediately turned to gaze back up at the stars and the castle. "Beautiful, right?"

"Yeah," Terry mumbled.

"Looking forward to Hogwarts?" the stocky Wayne asked, obviously for want of anything better to say.

"Sure. Maybe I'll learn how to properly deconstruct a chocolate frog. The spells on it looked interesting."

The other boy looked at Harry strangely, perhaps wondering if he was joking. "If you do," he said at last, "Let me know. My uncle's an artisan and a bit of a jack-of-all-trades, he could get us started in our own line of products. Chocolate ...lizards, or something. No, maybe birds, bats, something that flies."

Harry was slightly surprised to hear the boy taking the idea seriously. "Well, at least they would sell well, if word got round that I was involved. Apparently my forehead is something of a novelty."

"Yeah, I wasn't going to ask," Terry said, leaning across, "but what's up with that? Fall over a particularly sharp rock or something?"

Wayne frowned. "Huh. You're muggleborn?"

"Er, that means my parents aren't magical, right? Yeah," Terry said. "What if I am?"

"This is _Harry Potter_," Wayne replied, moonlight flickering across his face as a cloud passed overhead. "He's kind of a celebrity in the wizarding world. Most people know about him, see."

Harry turned away, listening glumly as a relative stranger began to tell another relative stranger the usual story. He watched the cliff get closer and closer, until he began to worry that they were actually going to crash into it.

Then, "Get yer heads down or get spilled out," Hagrid yelled, and everybody ducked. The boats passed through a curtain of trailing vegetation and through a tunnel. Harry's glasses picked out the edges of shining ceramic tiles all along it in extremely complex tessellating patterns. He'd have to come back here on a raft or something to sketch them. In daylight, preferably.

Then the boats grounded themselves on a gravel slope in a massive underground harbour, and the students spilled out.

"Anyway, I think we'd be on to a winner if we came up with a Frog Alternative," Wayne continued to ramble as he slogged up the slope behind Harry, "even if it was only for the local market. After all, the Chocolate Frog Company's been the biggest confectioner in Europe for years, ever since they merged with Whizzo Company and ended their Crunchy Frog line."

"Yes? What was that?"

The group began to trudge up a winding flight of stone steps.

"Well, it was a frog, coated in chocolate. Crunchy because it had bones in it."

"Strange," said Harry non-committally. It _was_ weird that you'd leave bones in a frog. Unless you needed more calcium? Maybe they were just too fiddly to take out.

"And then there was the Ram's Bladder Cup, and – _ugh_ – the Cherry Fondue. Oh, and the Spring Surprise, they actually got prosecuted for that one."

Harry glanced across at Wayne. "You're hoping for Ravenclaw, I take it?"

"Oh, no, I don't know. I just have a lot of family in various businesses, so I know a little bit about a lot of stuff. I'm a practical kind of chap, really, but wherever they decide to put me is fine. Just excited to finally be here, you know?"

They crossed a patch of wet grass, back under the stars for a moment, and then halted on a stone platform in front of wide double doors. Harry, feeling uneasy at the wide-open space, removed the darksight from his spectacles and wandered through the throng until he found Blaise and Neville again. Terry and Wayne trailed after him, now talking together excitedly about muggle candy.

Hagrid strode to the front, stared around at the group of first years, and then knocked thunderously on the doors. On the second stroke, they opened, and a severe-looking witch wearing a robe with a pattern of vines stepped through.

Hagrid nodded to her. "Got the firs' years 'ere, Pr'fessor McGonagall."

"Thank you Hagrid, I'll take them from here." The witch gave the huge man a piercing look. "I wouldn't worry about the Feast. Go back to bed, you still look quite ill."

"I might do that, an' thanks, Pr'fesser."

As Hagrid stumbled off, Professor McGonagall stared out at the night sky for a few seconds, and then brought her gaze sharply down at the assembled students, who instinctively quietened.

"Welcome," she said, "to Hogwarts."

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ This AU Harry is, of course, psychologically suited to one particular Hogwarts House; he was raised in a community whose values are strongly aligned with two of the others; there's also at least _some_ basis for him going to the fourth. If you want to make any bets about his Sorting, feel free to leave a comment, but I already know exactly where he'll end up.


	19. Chapter 19

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 19**

_Note: If you have a particularly strong attachment to your suspension of disbelief, feel free to skip the Sorting Hat's song._

* * *

"Welcome to Hogwarts."

The stern-faced witch surveyed the assembled first year students, face inscrutable.

Then, "Please follow me," she said, and led them into a huge hall.

* * *

_Compare the Harry Potter walking through the Hogwarts doors to some Harry Potter who might otherwise have been. Perhaps a Harry Potter where a decision had been made differently; a Harry Potter in some strange world where he had _**not**_ been taken by goblins from the doorstep of his relatives._

_This boy is taller and healthier, if also considerably more pale. This is a boy as accustomed to staff as to wand, dressed in practical leather under his robes. A boy permanently wondering at the world around him; but it is a wonder coupled with a dedication to the pursuit of the true forms and workings of things._

_Such traits are not overly common amongst eleven-year-olds. But a boy who grew up asking _"why?"_ in a society that usually asked _"how?"_ might have developed _**many**_ strange traits._

_A feral, toothy smile sometimes flashes across the face of this Harry Potter, when he is not grimacing. The smile is one which might make women swoon someday, but it looks particularly strange and nasty on an eleven-year-old._

_This Harry Potter, like his theoretical muggle-raised counterpart, is still entering a foreign world, but his background could not have been more different. Conditioned to excel instead of blend in, taught to work with his hands instead of to obey. Respectful of authority figures, but not a blind follower of them. A boy who appreciates the learning of skills and the true way of things, instead of a boy who appreciates being left alone._

_A boy like this, raised by those who valued cunning and trickery and hard work and skill, could be described as 'precocious'._

* * *

Harry admired the old marble stonework as he passed, and heard the rumble of many voices behind another door.

They passed into an antechamber with an elaborate tapestry across one wall. The figures seemed to be moving. Harry's focus drifted back to it after Professor McGonagall began to speak. His inattentiveness was due to the fact that he was hearing essentially the same speech which Filius had given. In fact, even Hermione had gone into greater detail on the train. Gryffindor valued the flame of courage, Slytherin was founded in fluidity and resourcefulness, Ravenclaw was for those who built castles in the air, and Hufflepuff was earthy and well-grounded. Easy enough to grasp.

He eventually tuned back in to hear about dormitories, house points and the house cup, but this was all rather more abstract and harder to follow.

"The Sorting Ceremony will begin in a few minutes. Please wait quietly and make sure you are respectable."

The professor walked briskly out.

* * *

The other students began to talk amongst themselves, but with a nervous air.

Harry looked around. Padma seemed to have her arm forcibly looped through her twin's. She was glowering at Blaise, who was silently laughing at her behind the other girl's back.

The long-haired Terry Boot tugged on his sleeve. He looked worried. "Harry, somebody's saying we have to conjure the four elements in front of the whole school, and the one we do best determines where we're Sorted. I didn't know we'd have to do magic right at the beginning!"

_Four_ elements?

Before Harry could reply, a short, excited-looking girl jumped in. "My cousin said we have to fight one of the teachers, and if we win we get to choose our House, but if we don't manage to land a blow we get put in Hufflepuff!"

Harry kept his expression blank, trying to make some sort of sense out of all that. Meanwhile, she was staring directly at him.

"Fight a teacher?" said a boy with an accent Harry couldn't identify. "A boy in my compartment was saying it was a troll we had to take on."

The girl ignored this contribution. "Oh wow... you're Harry Potter!" This drew the attention of the nearest students. "I'm Tracey." She made no move to extend her hand, and he was hesitant to offer his own while she was still fixedly staring at his scar.

"Tracey..."

"Tracey Davis. I bet _you_ could beat any of the teachers."

"There's a Hat-" he tried weakly.

Her eyes were lit with excitement. "Will they let us choose which professor to fight, do you think?"

"I think you're going to be disappointed," said Harry, shaking his head at Terry, who appeared to be unsure whether to believe it. "I do not believe we have to fight a teacher. _Or_ a troll."

"I really hope not," said Terry, biting his lip. "I've barely eaten today, I didn't know the train ride was going to be so long."

"But my cousin!" Tracey wailed. "He showed me a shield charm and everything, so that I'd have an edge!"

Harry sighed, and gave in. "Well, don't pick Professor Flitwick," he said. "He might look small, but he knows thousands of spells and he is very fast."

At that moment, Professor McGonagall returned and led them into the Great Hall, indicating they should form several lines on one side of the vast chamber, where they were able to see most of the proceedings. Those lines quickly devolved into a loose, uneasy huddle.

Harry looked around from his position in the middle. Candles filled the air, providing a constant glow. The plates and cups on the long tables absolutely shone beneath it; his fingers itched to see whether the metalware was real gold. It seemed unlikely.

The students themselves were chattering each other and peering at the newcomers, some standing up to get a better look. A few pearly silver shapes sat amongst the assembled school. Another was seated at the head table nearby, and Harry watched it thoughtfully, wondering about its significance. The figures were ghosts, obviously – goblins didn't have them, not exactly, but he was familiar with what they were meant to be.

Long, beautiful banners, in what were obviously the house colours, hung above each student table. Far above them, the sky was studded with stars in one lonely little patch; clouds had covered the rest. Harry thought he had read something about the ceiling of the Hogwarts Great Hall, but couldn't remember what. Presumably there was some sort of invisible shield to stop the surface weather getting in. Harry hoped it would hold up – he had experienced rain once, and didn't like it.

Somebody poked him in the back. "Dumbledore," Blaise hissed, pointing. "Not making a good case for his own sanity, is he?"

Harry's gaze followed the pointing finger. A white-bearded wizard he vaguely recognised was dressed in resplendent pink robes covered in blinking eyes. He seemed to be amusing himself turning pieces of cutlery into live squirrels and back again, a fact which had not gone unnoticed by the rest of the hall.

The laughter and conversations dwindled down to nothing as Professor McGonagall placed a ragged dark grey hat on top of a wooden stool. The stool shared the same appearance as the hat: something that had seen better days.

At the head table, Dumbledore turned a particularly large red squirrel back into a gravy jug, tucked his wand into his sleeve, and leaned forward to watch. Professor McGonagall stepped back, leaving everyone's attention focused on what Harry assumed was the Hat of Gryffindor.

* * *

There were long seconds of silence, and then finally a long, ragged tear in the brim opened wide, like a mouth. It rippled, and the Hat twisted towards the group of assembled first year students for a moment.

Then the Hat spoke, in a chirpy, friendly tone. Harry realised he had been expecting a deeper, more majestic voice.

By way of preamble, it said, "Cheer up, first years! You know what they say..."

And then the Hat broke into song.

"_Some things in life are scary_

_But it's quite unnecessary_

_To worry yourself about the way I Sort_

_Every House where you might go_

_Is a worthwhile one, you know_

_In any House, you'll learn and you'll be taught..._

_To..._

"_Always think of the best side of your House!_

_Always show off the best side of your House!"_

Harry had never heard an item of clothing whistle a chorus before.

"_If the Slytherins seem rotten_

_Then there's something you've forgotten_

_And that's their style and wit and ambition._

_If you're not keen on Gryffindor_

_- Their arrogance becomes a bore -_

_Think of their brave and noble hearts, and grin..._

_And..._

"_Always think of the best side of your House!_

_Always show off the best side of your House!_

"_Ravenclaws might be absurd_

_And always seek the final word_

_But their minds are quick and canny every day;_

_Almost every Hufflepuff_

_Is a duffer, sure enough!_

_But they're honest and loyal anyway..._

_So..._

"_Always think of the best side of your House!_

_Always show off the best side of your House!_

"_Houses have little clout_

_When you think about_

_What matters most of all in life, it's true._

_What does matter, let's be clear_

_Is that you make friends while you're here_

_And remember that your House reflects on you..._

_Sing it with me!"_

The whole Gryffindor table, most of whom had already been clapping their hands to the beat, roared:

"_Always think of the best side of your House!_

_Always show off the best side of your House!"_

Many of the other students, as well as Dumbledore, came in on the next chorus.

"_Always think of the best side of your House!_

_Always show off the best side of your House!"_

"Come on first years, join in!" the Hat added.

"_Always think of the best side of your House!_

_Always show off the best side of your House!"_

"What have you got to lose?" the Hat called, cheerily.

"_Always think of the best side of your House!_

_Always show off the best side of your House!"_

The singing faded as the Hat whistled a long solo. The refrain crescendoed and then died away to scattered applause, and the Hall rang with a sudden silence. Then Professor McGonagall stepped forward again, lips pursed tightly as if to prevent something escaping.

* * *

"When I call your name from the list," the professor announced into the hush, "you will place the Hat on your head and sit upon the stool to be sorted."

She unrolled a parchment scroll. "Abbott, Hannah!"

The crowd of first years parted to let a chubby blonde girl through. She had barely sat down when the outsized hat that had fallen over her head shouted, "_Hufflepuff!_"

There was applause, loudest at the furthest table with the yellow banner, and the girl went to join them.

"Bones, Susan!"

Harry recognised the name "Bones" from his book of genealogy. The girl in question was sorted into Hufflepuff, and then -

"Boot, Terry!"

Terry moved forward from the front, looking pale and sickly. The Hat descended on his head and he sat in tense silence for ten seconds before it exclaimed, "_Ravenclaw!_"

Terry hurried off to find a seat at the Ravenclaw table. Harry did his best to memorise names and faces as the Sorting continued, but there were a lot of them.

"Brocklehurst, Mandy!" … "_Ravenclaw!_"

"Brown, Lavender!" … "_Gryffindor!_"

"Bulstrode, Millicent!" … "_Slytherin!_"

"Corner, Michael!" ... "_Ravenclaw!_"

"Cornfoot, Stephen!" … "_Ravenclaw!_"

"Crabbe, Vincent!" Harry recognised one of the boys who had stood with Draco Malfoy on the train.

The Hat mumbled to itself for a while, and then shouted, "_Slytherin!_"

"Davis, Tracey!" The girl hurried forward. There was so much trepidation in her face just confronted by a _hat_ that Harry wondered how she'd have handled it if they actually had to fight for a place in the houses, as her cousin had said.

"_Slytherin!_"

"Entwhistle, Kevin!" … "_Ravenclaw!_"

"Finch-Fletchley, Justin!" … "_Hufflepuff!_"

"Finnigan, Seamus!" This was the boy who had brought up the 'troll conjecture' while they were waiting.

It took quite a while, but then, "_Gryffindor!_"

"Goldstein, Anthony!" … "_Ravenclaw!_"

"Goyle, Gregory!" And there was the other large boy from the train. "_Slytherin!_"

"Granger, Hermione!"

Hermione marched to the Hat with fists balled, and jammed it down on her head as she sat. It dropped down over her eyes and stayed there for quite some time. Harry wondered what was going on in there, exactly. Was the Hat having trouble deciding? Was she somehow arguing with it? Was she trying to impress it by thinking courageous thoughts, as she had mooted on the train, or was she taking another approach?

Perhaps a minute later, the Hat seemed to nod slightly, and announced to the Hall, "_Ravenclaw!_"

A flicker of an upset look passed over McGonagall's face before she called, "Greengrass, Daphne!"

Harry turned a little and saw Professor Flitwick beaming from the head table, and then the Hat called, "_Slytherin!_"

"Hopkins, Wayne!"

The earnest, stocky boy from Harry's boat was quickly sorted into Hufflepuff, soon followed by "Jones, Megan!"

"Li, Su" took a long time to be announced a Ravenclaw, and then Professor McGonagall called, "Longbottom, Neville!"

He stumbled and almost tripped on the way to the Hat, but let it drop down over his head. In relatively short order, it called, "_Hufflepuff!_"

The boy nodded to himself and put the Hat down very carefully before going off with shaky legs to join the applauding Hufflepuff table.

"MacDougal, Morag" became a Ravenclaw, and then "Macmillan, Ernie" was called. Harry watched the boy twist and fidget on the stool before he was announced a Gryffindor. Predictable enough, if his fervent support of Dumbledore was anything to go by.

"Malfoy, Draco" was grinning as he sat down wearing the Hat, and became a Slytherin almost immediately. The applause from his new house was the loudest yet, and his grin became even wider.

"Moon, Lilith" – the girl from Harry's boat – became a Hufflepuff, and then Theodore Nott was called forward.

The small, mousy-haired boy looked grim as the Hat slipped down over his head. A few seconds later, it called, "Slytherin!"

The next girl, "Parkinson, Pansy", joined him at the table soon after. Harry was growing a little nervous. Only about a quarter of the first years were left to be sorted, and "Potter, Harry" would presumably come relatively soon.

"Patil, Padma" was called, and Padma walked forward, face serene. She sat down demurely on the stool before lifting the Hat onto her head. A little later, it shouted "_Slytherin!_" and Harry heard her sister draw breath sharply from somewhere along the line. The new Slytherin smiled faintly on her way to the green-and-silver table.

Then, "Patil, Parvati!"

The matching figure became a "_Gryffindor!_" and the hall buzzed with brief conversations. Presumably it was unusual to see twins split up.

"Perks, Sally-Anne!" The Hat barely had time to touch her head before it called, "_Hufflepuff!_"

The applause was short-lived, giving way to another buzz of conversation when Professor McGonagall called, "Potter, Harry!"

* * *

He walked forward, eyes fixed on the Hat. His peripheral vision noted that a few students at the house tables seemed to be standing up to get a better look at him.

The Hat was even more dirty and ragged from up close. He picked it up, sat down on the stool in its place, and let it slide down over his eyes. It was dark within, and smelled of old sweat.

"Good evening," he said politely, or tried to say. Something was preventing him speaking aloud while under the Hat, but it seemed to hear him anyway.

"Yes, good evening to you. Another Potter, eh?" The rustling voice seemed to speak directly into his head.

"Yes. I am Harry James Potter. How may I call you, please?"

"Ha. What does a hat need with a name? Many have thought it a fine private joke to call me 'Millie' or 'Tam' or 'Rick', but in truth I have nothing more than a label."

"But you are sentient, are you not? If you will excuse me asking," Harry added quickly.

"Indeed I am, but you will find that the sets 'things with names' and 'things which think' are not equivalent, Mr Harry Potter. Oh, the Potters, I remember them all so well. Such a strange mind you have... but since there's no shortage of courage there, then if you've no objections, we'll put you in Gryffindor. How about it?"

"There must be more to the process than that." Harry thought rapidly; he didn't particularly want to be in Gryffindor.

"There is, and that's why I asked," it responded, then chuckled. "I can feel what you're preparing yourself to do, by the way, and just so you know, reaching up to hold my brim closed _wouldn't_ stop me sorting you. Incidentally, everyone who's ever tried that, I've put into Gryffindor."

Harry relaxed slightly, but it was unnerving to have the Hat pick up on what was only a passing thought. "You make it sound like a certainty. How do you actually arrive at a decision?"

"Oh, not a certainty, not at all. And 'decision' is often something of an overstatement. Almost everyone who asks about the actual sorting process ends up in Ravenclaw, by the way."

The Hat seemed to snuggle down around his temples a little. "You're wise to have reservations. Yes, you're right, it _is_ a choice which will mould your school years, and your life beyond them. No, it's not creepy. Oh, very well, if it makes you feel better, I won't respond to any thoughts except the ones you vocalise."

"It _is_ creepy," Harry thought-spoke insistently. "Can you see _everything_ in my mind?"

"No... there are many dark shields – strange shields – I cannot reach through. If I could, I would have sorted you already. But I can still tell that your mind is something else. Such potential..."

Harry wondered if he was imagining the tickling sensation as the Hat stayed silent for a few seconds.

"I see," it said eventually. "One of the most inquisitive minds I've ever seen... a general sharpness of wit... you know several languages, you've thought about the learning process itself... yes... Ravenclaw to a turn, I would say. But then again, there is canniness, a subtle nature, and oh _my_ how you've embraced the mighty expectations your adopted people have of you, turning it into ambition. Yes... I would put you in Slytherin without a second thought if you wish it. Hear me out first, though."

There was the sensation again. "You've already worked harder than most who pass under me, and not just for yourself but other people. Making friends already, I see... open-minded about all persons, regardless of shape... not terribly trusting, but you have faith in people who have earned it, and respect for people who deserve it... you would make quite a splendid Hufflepuff. I believe you could forge that house into something spectacular. Yes indeed. I would say Ravenclaw for your mind or Hufflepuff for your hands, young Potter, but I might be swayed to any of the houses."

Harry was vaguely aware that the hall outside had filled up with whispering. "Ignore them," the hat said. "I will not Sort falsely or too fast. Contrary to the 'little clout' and other reassurances of my song earlier, this _will_ be a life-changing decision for you. Your thoughts so far? You have a concern about Slytherin, I see."

"Yes. I'd heard-"

"That the Slytherins might have a problem with you, given the past proclivities and pastimes of many graduates from that House. Well, it cuts both ways, of course, and many would wish to associate themselves with you, but I won't lie... you _would_ face more obstacles in Slytherin. You are used to the idea of standing on your own merits, and due to your history, nowhere would that be more important than in the house of snakes."

"Would it interfere with my education?"

The Hat paused for a long time. "This is not something I have said often to a student, but I suspect that for one such as you, most of the education you will get at Hogwarts will come from your own study and ...exploration."

It laughed – a curious, clothy sort of sound. "I am only a Hat, with no more foresight than I have eyesight. But I feel, deep in my stitching, that if it is your wish to become _learned_, you should go to Slytherin, where you may discover secrets in avenues once thought lost... But if you want to realise your _ambitions_, the tomes and debates and challenges of Ravenclaw may help you more. Quite a paradox. You have an almost visceral need to be surrounded by other fine minds, Mr Potter. Oh yes, in Ravenclaw your intelligence will take your places."

"And what would my intelligence do in Slytherin?"

The hat was quiet for a long time, before saying quietly, "It might make you feared. I am only a Hat, I cannot say. In Hufflepuff, you ask? In Hufflepuff..." it trailed off.

"Yes?"

"I will not lie. It might be stifled. In Hufflepuff you would learn to bring the lowest up, not push the highest further."

"I will not accept that."

"I did not think so." The Hat was silent again for a time, as the muffled noise from the Hall beyond grew and grew. "I will add that both Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff are less polarising. There are... political and social issues with the other two Houses that there simply have not been at other times in history."

Harry thought about his options, trying to ignore the fact that the Hat above him was reading every single thought that flashed through his head.

"Hufflepuff?" it asked hopefully, after a minute, but he shook his head. He hated feeling rushed about decisions, even small ones. But still...

The Hat picked up on what he was thinking, and agreed with another strange laugh. "All this rather in-depth debate goes to show that there really is only one reasonable place for you, you realise."

Harry sighed, thinking about hostility in Slytherin or having to pander to the lowest common denominator in Hufflepuff, and he remembered Filius and Ravenclaw's private library, and got as far as "I suppose-" before the Hat was booming:

"_Ravenclaw!_"

Harry realised he was Sorted, and lifted the Hat from his head. He heard a squeaking noise from behind him, and turned, just in time to see Professor Flitwick disappear backwards off his stool at the table.

The loud thump was lost in the growing cheers and applause. Harry set the Hat down and marched towards the Ravenclaw table, half of whom seemed to be clapping and the other half gossiping excitedly.

* * *

In the audience, Fred Weasley glanced across at his twin. "Ravenclaw? Almost as bad as Slytherin, that."

"_Definitely_ Dark Lord material," George nodded.

* * *

Harry heard "Rivers, Robert" and "Roper, Artemis" both get Sorted into Hufflepuff (the latter bobbing a curtsy to the Hat afterwards). He found a spot on the bench between Terry and an older boy, who shook Harry's hand after he sat down.

"Glad to have you, Mr Potter. What a Sorting, you had everyone on the edge of their seats. Most people were betting 'Gryffindor' at first, but they started saying 'Slytherin' once you stayed under there so long. I'm Peregrine, but you can call me Pip – I'm a prefect, so you can ask me anything you want."

Harry heard Jan Runcorn called to the Hat, and turned away from the chubby, bespectacled older boy, who was beaming at him earnestly.

"Thanks ...Pip... but I want to watch this. I'm sure she'll be in-"

The Hat had barely touched her head before it shouted, "Gryffindor!" at the same time as Harry said the word. He smiled and shook his head as the girl whooped aloud and joined her table.

"Good eye," Pip said. Harry kept watching the Sorting, trying to ignore the fact that much of the table had elected to watch _him_ instead.

"Smith, Zacharias!" ... "_Hufflepuff!_"

"Spinks, Ivy!" ... "_Hufflepuff!_"

"Thomas, Dean!" … "_Gryffindor!_"

"Turpin, Lisa!" … "_Ravenclaw!_"

The girl walked past them to find a free spot, and Harry scrutinised his new housemate. Then he tried to remember who else had been Sorted here, apart from Hermione. There had been quite a few of them...

"Weasley, Ron!" The boy who liked Quidditch sprouted a smile of relief when he was sorted into Gryffindor, sitting down next to another redhead. Harry guessed they might both be related to Bill Weasley, from Gringotts.

Then, "Zabini, Blaise!" was called, and Blaise ambled forward from where he had been standing by himself. There was just a trace of strain on his face before he disappeared under the Hat, but a few seconds later the shout of "_Slytherin!_" came, and he emerged again with his customary look of mild amusement.

As the hall slowly came to order, Harry wondered and worried a little about the Sorting. Was his placement the best it could be? Were _others_ where they should be? Everything was telling him that a choice of House could be very important, but what little variables or experiences might have shifted a person from one House to another? Terry and Padma hadn't been Sorted immediately upon the Hat touching their heads. What tiny threads of consequence or upbringing or even discussions he had held this evening might have kept them out of – say – Hufflepuff?

Of course, what was hewn, was hewn. Harry grew distracted by the plate in front of him, tapping it with a fingernail and listening carefully. The resonance sounded nothing _like_ gold, probably not even gold plated but simply an illusion or enchantment.

Then a flicker of movement at the head table caught his attention.

* * *

Professor Dumbledore stood slowly, smoothing out creases in his bright pink robes. The embroidered eyes on them stared in every direction and occasionally blinked. Harry paid close attention to how the powerful wizard comported himself.

Dumbledore beamed around the hall, and spoke.

"First years, welcome to Hogwarts! Everyone else, welcome back! I know we are all keen to give our banquet the attention it richly deserves, but I do have a few preliminary words to say. I hope they will whet your appetite and set the tone for what should prove to be a most bodacious school year. So without further ado, I say unto you: Essomenic! Scurrilous! Gardeviance! Partake!"

On the last word, food appeared, but that was an understatement. Harry blinked at it all.

Next to him, Terry stared and moaned, murmuring to himself. "Are you _seeing_ what I'm seeing? _Piles_ of pies. Stacks of steak. Platters of potatoes. Mountains of mincemeat." He seemed to run out of steam, continuing more slowly. "Tanks of tomatoes. Trays of tripe. Um, buckets of beef. Vats, I suppose, of vegetables. Tureens of turtle soup. Bowls of ...baloney?"

Pip leaned across Harry to rap the other boy on the head with a spoon. "Food goes in mouth, little wordsmith. You can alliterate about it later." He drew a large pot towards himself. "This isn't turtle soup, anyway. It's some sort of fish thing."

The platters were stacked so closely together that barely an inch of the table was visible. The salt and pepper pots threaded their way through it all on spindly legs, in hot pursuit of the butter dish, which was clattering from the shelter of one gleaming dish to another.

Harry cautiously picked up the nearest steaming platter. Some sort of stew with meat, topped with mashed tubers. Probably potatoes?

"It appears that Blaise was right about Headmaster Dumbledore, yes?" he observed.

The prefect Pip glanced curiously at him. "Let me guess. You heard that Dumbledore's a loony, and his little speech just confirmed it?"

Harry glanced up and down the table, trying to work out if he was meant to eat the thick stew with fork or spoon. "It certainly seems like it."

"He always does something particularly strange at the Welcome Feast," Pip said. "I mean, he acts a bit mad the rest of the year, too, but it's always worst on the first evening. Maybe it builds up during the holidays, or something."

Harry nodded, deciding on the spoon and hesitantly trying the stew. The lumps of meat had been cooked so much that they were brown right through. It didn't really taste _bad_, just rather strange. If Bogripple hadn't warned him, he might have spat it out in surprise.

He tried a few more things. There was far more meat than he'd had at any meal, even feasts. All the vegetables were cooked, which threw him a little, and the only fish dish was the soup which Pip had commented on. There didn't seem to be any fungi at all.

He grabbed some brown slices. "What is this?"

Terry looked at his plate, then gave him a weird look. "Just beef."

He chewed it thoughtfully. Cuisine was one area where his English didn't get much practise. "Beef... that's from a horse or cow or something, yes?"

Pip spat out a mouthful, and turned to look at him. The girl on the opposite side of the table, who had long braided hair, wrinkled her nose in disgust. "_Horse?_"

"...Not horse, then?"

There were more stares, from all around. "Not horse," Terry agreed weakly. "You've never eaten beef?"

"I don't know. Maybe? I've had surface food, but not a lot of meat."

"Oh!" Pip's broad face suddenly seemed to light up. "You live with goblins, that's right! God, do they eat horses?"

"Mainly vegetables... nutritious fungi... small cave animals, fish." Harry shrugged. "Meat is usually hard to come by. It's to do with ..._energy loops_, I think you would say in English. A horse is the large mammal with hooves, yes? Like a cow or donkey but large, with the vaguely dragon-y head? Are they not good to eat?"

The looks on their faces told him that no, horses were not good to eat.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ _The Life Of Brian_ is the property of Monty Python; _Harry Potter_ is the property of J K Rowling. Do not get them confused.

→ Yes, I write references. If you were surprised by the sudden crop of Monty Python gags, it is likely because you didn't pick up the more obscure Discworld MUD gags before that, the MSPA gags before _that_, and the LOTR and Doctor Who and Digger and who knows what else gags before that...

→ Various people have commented on, or expressed their distaste for, the OCs. If you will excuse the pedantry, note that every single first year student, including Runcorn, Moon and Hopkins, is either in the books or in JKR's notes for the books; although for many we have nothing but a name, this may not make them OCs _as such_. Peregrine, on the other hand, is made up from whole cloth. If you are annoyed by true OCs like this, then you may wish to stop reading completely, because a tiny fraction of the students are mentioned in the books and there is no sane reason why Harry would happen to encounter only that fraction. That said, there is necessarily a balance between old familiar faces and new names attached to unknown entities. Those who tried to keep track of about a billion different goblins should have no problem.

→ Finally, Ravenclaw House! Congratulations to those who spotted it. It was probably fairly obvious, with Hufflepuff being the closest alternative and Slytherin a little less likely.

→ The next chapter is all but written. Those are famous last words, so bear with me if it doesn't _actually_ appear for a week or so after this one. As always, thanks for reading and please leave a review!


	20. Chapter 20

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 20**

* * *

Ten minutes later, Harry had been too busy answering questions to eat more than a few forkfuls. British wizards apparently had a lot of essentially arbitrary limits on what they would or wouldn't consume. They didn't eat any carnivorous mammals, but many other mammals were fair game – generally the larger ones, horses notwithstanding. _Some_ of the small ones, like rabbits, were eaten, and some, like squirrels – he had asked because of Dumbledore's ongoing antics at the head table – were off limits.

Also, they apparently cooked and ate bird eggs, which was just _weird_. And it put paid to Harry's half-formed hypothesis about spurning inaccessible foods. After all, rabbits were easily caught, because they lived in the ground. Squirrels, apparently, lived in trees, which put them firmly out of reach in Harry's book, so forbidding them wasn't really going to cause any problems. But didn't birds nest in trees, too? Did wizards climb for eggs?

Weird, weird, weird.

But not as weird, apparently, as eating insects. Fellow Ravenclaw first-year Mandy Brocklehurst had left her spot opposite him in favour of a seat much further down the table when the topic came up.

It seemed that it wasn't just moth grubs which wizards objected to. Interesting. Harry could relate to not liking hard-shelled beetles or centipedes – even candied – but wizards didn't eat insects _at all_.

"What about, er-" he couldn't find the English word. "hard-shelled – crabs and shrimps and things?"

"Crustaceans," said Pip, who had pushed his plate away part-way through the conversation. "Well, sure. But they're not... I mean..."

"They cannot be very different from insects that live underwater, surely?"

Faces continued to watch Harry from all down the table with variously appalled or interested expressions as the older boy tried to explain.

* * *

At least one face at the head table, too, was turned in the direction of Harry Potter.

Albus Dumbledore gazed pensively at the boy, who had spent even longer under the Hat than Percy Weasley had, several years ago. Not for the first time, Dumbledore wished the Hat could be persuaded to share what it had learned during the Sorting.

He always tried to keep an eye on the students for whom the Hat took its time – the cases that weren't cut and dry, or when a student pushed hard for a House they were not suited to, or when the Hat found a character interesting enough to stop and chat with – as it had with Dumbledore himself. He was watchful, because there was a pattern he had picked up on during his long decades as Headmaster. Those students tended to have complex personalities... often leading to complex problems.

Harry Potter in Ravenclaw; where did that fit into the scheme of things? Filius had been rather tight-lipped on the boy. Perhaps he got his mind from his mother, just as he had his looks from his father? Dumbledore shook his head and looked up into the candle-strewn air of the Great Hall, gazing into the morass of flickering light in deep thought.

* * *

When conversation eventually turned away from goblins, Harry found that the sixth-year prefect Pip, or Peregrine Barne, was from a long line of Barnes in Ravenclaw. The heavily-built boy made some joke about owls which Harry didn't understand.

He also learned what a prefect was, in fairly vague terms. It sounded like an important responsibility, and his respect for the boy ratcheted up a notch from the initial one point Harry had secretly awarded him for being well-read.

Eventually, a boy scooted a little down the opposite bench to take Mandy's vacated seat. Kevin Entwhistle, another new yearmate, was wiry and gaunt-looking. He had tried – subconsciously and unsuccessfully – to smooth his ruffled hair while asking Harry about his family. Harry changed the topic before discussion of his goblin upbringing could reignite, resulting in a debate about exactly what sort of spell was holding the candles in mid-air.

That somehow devolved into a discussion about Quidditch. Kevin seemed to think the idea of riding broomsticks at all was ridiculous, while Terry, another muggleborn, was amazed that some of the balls were made of wood laminated over solid lead. When an older girl mentioned that falling from a broom or colliding with a post at speed were relatively common, even in school matches, Terry refused to believe it. "There'd be terrible injuries, all the time! It wouldn't be allowed!"

Pip grinned and shook his head, and explained about the Hackard-Pewlett Scale, "named after a witch named Hannah Hackard and a wizard named Ponce de Pewlett. They theorised that magic-users were tougher than squibs, d'you see, who were tougher again than muggles." People never seemed to be hurt by their own accidental magic. Professional duellers tended to only get seriously damaged by spells rather than the physical backlash. And there were all sorts of dangerous wizard games like Quidditch and Quodpot and Contact Hunt The Slipper.

Hackard and Pewlett had tried to come up with a mathematical formula for calculating magical power from a person's physical resilience, and vice versa, even going so far as to devise a series of brutal tests to prove their ideas. Their potentially ground-breaking research had been hindered only by a severe lack of volunteers. The Hackard-Pewlett unit of vitality they established was never used, but the theory was still around.

Harry was trying to think of ways to conclusively prove or disprove it when an older student walked up to him, shook his hand and told him that it was "so cool" that Harry Potter was in her house, and that it was "way wicked" because she "never thought it would happen, right?"

"Well, it's a baseline twenty-five percent chance," Harry said automatically, still trying to parse the bits he hadn't understood. "Actually, wait." He scanned the Hall, becoming distracted as he thought about it properly. "Yes, it looks like there _are_ about as many students in all the houses – but not exactly the same number, which is a relief."

The girl put her goblet down. "Why?"

"Well, if the Sorting Hat maintains too strict a ...parity, I think the term is, then it means some people must be nudged towards a House they shouldn't be in. The only alternative would be that exactly a quarter of the population are studious, exactly a quarter are hard-working yet somehow _not_ studious, exactly a quarter are ambitious but, presumably, aren't willing to work hard to achieve their aims, and exactly a quarter are 'brave and righteous', yet not 'loyal and true'."

He mulled this over as the girl shrugged helplessly, retrieving her cup and retreating to her own seat. He could see that a rough balance must be maintained. Probably the Sorting Hat kept track of how many people had which qualities the last few years, making its criteria for each House more or less stringent to compensate. After all, he doubted a single person in the room would count as 'cunning' in, say, goblin banker terms.

...And then in any _given_ year, it might even have to start shunting people towards the houses that had fewer sorted into them so far. That would come at the end of the Sorting, if it had ended up with too much of a bias. Harry hummed quietly to himself, trying to remember the numbers from earlier in the evening, and who had been Sorted last. Ron Weasley, Blaise, a Ravenclaw girl...

He looked around the room, food forgotten. And now that he was looking for it, there was another thing...

"Something on your mind, Potter?" Pip asked, rapping his spoon against Harry's water goblet to get his attention.

"Hmmm? Oh. I was thinking... How many year levels are in the school?"

"Seven."

"Strange. There were about forty students Sorted, and there are far more than two-eighty in total here. I'd guess something like twice that number. I'm sure forty children a year wouldn't be enough to sustain a population, anyway. There must be more than that back home, and we're a smaller enclave than the British wizards."

The older boy glanced away for a moment, then spoke quietly. "You might not be aware of it, but this is the damaged generation. The history books will tell you that there used to be close to a thousand students here at any time. The war hit everyone very hard, d'you see. A few children died, but it was mainly that future parents were killed, and those who lived – well, it wasn't a good time to be having more. Many fled the country, too. There'll be a boom next year or the year after, I guarantee it, what with the eleven-year anniversary. I wouldn't be surprised if we had three times as many firsties next time around."

Pip rattled his spoon idly around the edge of his plate. "So... yeah. At the moment there's about a hundred fifty Ravens, the same in Hufflepuff. Fewer in Gryffindor and Slytherin, probably closer to a hundred each. Houses _do_ tend to get passed down in families, and those two groups tended to ...pick sides in the war. And didn't come out intact."

He seemed to grow maudlin, and Harry nervously rubbed the two invisible family rings he wore. He hadn't really assimilated the real impact the war had had on wizarding Britain. All those people who seemed obsessed with him as their miraculous saviour ...suddenly didn't seem quite so funny, or even quite so annoying, now.

* * *

A conversation at the head table was mirroring Harry's own thoughts.

"I remember a time when we had two dozen new entrants in each House. It was not so terribly long ago..."

Minerva McGonagall frowned at her employer. Normally Dumbledore didn't speak like this unless he was deep in his cups.

"I will admit I thought we could have done better than just seven new Gryffindors, Albus," she said. This was something of an understatement. Pomona now had a round dozen first-year badgers. Filius had done almost as well, and had managed to lay claim to both Ms Granger and Mr Potter, to boot. Even Slytherin had managed to claim double digits, which meant Severus was going to be more insufferable than usual.

Dumbledore ran a thumb around his goblet, humming in harmony with the sound it produced. "It will make for rather small classes, in some cases."

"Yes." Minerva was well aware; she was in charge of the timetabling. On the bright side, she wouldn't have to split her attention too far in first-year Transfiguration.

"I suspect the Hat is padding the numbers towards the green and the red as much as its remit allows. Oh, how the Houses have changed since my day."

Minerva was unable to stifle a sigh as she watched Dumbledore's hand slowly edging back to his wand. He had been on a squirrel high for a week now. "Indeed. The muggleborns become more and more enthused with learning, the purebloods grow more and more cloistered within Slytherin, and Hufflepuff's reputation has dwindled to something akin to a joke. Hence the extraordinary composition of the Houses."

Dumbledore blinked at this. "What do you mean, Minerva?"

She pushed her glasses back on her nose. "Essentially, every muggleborn student goes to Ravenclaw, because they are more excited to be learning magic than those who grew up with it are, or to Hufflepuff, because they haven't been exposed to the idea that it's a joke House. That pushes their overall numbers up, since the muggleborns make up so many of our numbers these days. Then the oldest families go straight to Slytherin, with a few exceptions like Mr Longbottom and Mr Weasley. That leaves few for Gryffindor."

Dumbledore peered about the hall. "Surely you exaggerate."

Minerva snorted. "Please, Headmaster. Pomona or I visited every muggleborn student this year, and have done for the last two decades. Precisely _one_ of them – Mr Thomas – is in Gryffindor this year. There are _none_ in Slytherin, and there have not been for as long as I can remember! I can only assume that the Hat knows that if it dared put a muggleborn student into Slytherin, they would end up leaving the school rather than endure their housemates!"

Dumbledore slumped in his seat a little, but did not try to deny it. He watched a small, tawny squirrel, which a minute ago had been a pickle fork, scuttle away down the table. "There must be a way to heal this rift, but I find myself stretched so thin these days. Perhaps it will only be time... time. You know, I have often thought we Sort too early. Perhaps it is a mistake to Sort at all."

Minerva glanced about. On Dumbledore's left, Severus was resolutely ignoring their conversation. Beyond him, Pomona was beaming down at her table of badgers. To her own right, Filius was talking enthusiastically to the newest professor, Septima Vector, who had been working in the classrooms for the last year, preparing to take over from Professor Turing.

She leaned in closer to Dumbledore and said quietly, "Something is troubling you, Albus. The... object? Quirinus? Or the search for his replacement?"

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "Not even a term did he last... it is past time to call in a curse-breaker yet again, but the school's funds are not so great as to allow us to hire anyone of skill."

"So no luck with the search?"

"It has been hectic, Minerva. The business with Quirinus and Hagrid, and then negotiating with the Minister about his Dementors... quite apart from the latest rout in the ICW." He shook his head again, this time as if to clear it of cobwebs, and straightened up, drawing his wand and eyeing the water pitcher speculatively. "Who can cover the Defence classes this week?"

Minerva consulted the schedule in her head. "Lance for the first, third or fourth years, Aurora the fifth, second or sixth. Severus could take either the seventh or the first. Or," she added pointedly, "I could skip my usual office hours to introduce the first years to the subject."

Dumbledore paused, obviously considering the idea of either Lance Kettleburn or Severus Snape introducing impressionable first-years to Defence Against The Dark Arts.

"Yes, that might be advisable. Aurora will not have time to take three extra classes, though."

A scowl flickered across McGonagall's face. The Astronomy teacher got on her nerves almost as much as her sister-in-arms, Sybill Trelawney. "I suppose Filius could do the second-year class. It would be him or Cuthbert."

Dumbledore winced this time. Professor Cuthbert Binns was not exactly representative of the high standard to which Hogwarts professors should be held. The mental image of him teaching Defence was hard to even construct, let alone seriously consider. "...Indeed. I have petitioned Aurors Bacon, Proudfoot and Higgs to volunteer their services in their off-hours while they are stationed in Hogsmeade, but I would certainly not wish to rely on them. It would be best if they merely helped with the practical work."

Minerva nodded. "What shall we do for lesson plans?" It was common knowledge that all of the papers and personal effects of Professor Dimitrius Dervish had been lost when he spontaneously combusted the year before.

Dumbledore gazed around the happily feasting school. "Professor Wyggin's workbooks should still be filed in the library. They're old, but..."

"They're almost a _century_ old, Albus!"

"It's only temporary, Minerva."

"Who are your current candidates?"

The old wizard sighed. "There are so few to draw upon. Dedalus Diggle is still in Spain. I have been in contact with Remus Lupin quite recently, but he is in a very difficult situation. There are some extant conflicts which are unlikely to be resolved quickly enough to put him on the staff this year."

He began ticking them off on his fingers. "Alastor Moody told me to come back when he'd enjoyed more than six months of retirement. Maude Mackleby has become too infirm to teach. The Ministry would never allow Healer Thorpe back at Hogwarts, even if I could convince him to return to his old position."

"Emmeline Vance?"

"She is happy in her current employment. No, it is difficult indeed. The Board of Governors are making unhappy rumblings. The Ministry would love to step in and assign someone to keep a close watch on things here, so they will be inspecting anyone I select with extraordinary vigour. I do have one candidate in mind from within the Ministry, which should assuage them, but I fear it will take some work to convince him."

"Oh?" Minerva cocked an eyebrow.

When Dumbledore told her who, she nodded approvingly. "We have seen far worse. I will compose a plea myself, if necessary. And now, Albus, would you _please_ turn that rodent back into Severus' napkin ring before it escapes."

* * *

Harry watched curiously as the small animal once again became a wide brass hoop. He couldn't determine its function from this distance.

"Who is that?" he asked Pip quietly, jerking his head towards the sour-looking owner of the utensil. "He keeps looking at me."

The prefect glanced up at the head table. "Oh, Professor Snape? He's probably as curious about you as anyone. Don't worry about the scowl, he always looks like that. He teaches Potions, although it looks like we don't have a Defence Against The Dark Arts professor right now, so maybe he's going to finally get that position. England's youngest Potions Master in centuries, you know. Oh, Head of Slytherin, too."

Harry nodded, sure there was something more to the man's insistent glare, but instead asked about each of the other teachers. Before he had learned even half of them, all the large platters on the tables vanished, a new selection of food appearing in their place.

Harry tentatively identified the new choices as things in the 'sweet' category. There were small tarts and large pies, dishes piled high with candies similar to the ones on the train, and dishes of dense, cold ...stuff. When he asked Terry what it was, it resulted in a full minute of choking and boggling and then in Harry learning about ice-cream. It was slightly like the Ice Mice he had once had in Diagon Alley, which was to say, much too sweet.

The table's centrepiece was an enormous jelly in the shape of a bright blue bird. Harry saw the other tables had their own jelly animals in their own colours: a green serpent, a yellow badger, a red cat. The staff table had what he eventually decided was a quivering orange phoenix; Dumbledore had just excised most of its head and ladled it into his bowl.

Kevin Entwhistle proffered various things in Harry's direction from across the table, while leaning protectively over an entire coffee cake in an attempt to defend it against all comers. Harry tentatively tried some of the foods, but after the first disaster of 'exploding bonbons' he avoided the rest of the pudding, electing to just look around the hall and sometimes talk.

* * *

When things had wound down, Dumbledore stood up. "Now that we are all stuffed and dozy, the rest of the words I promised," the old wizard said cheerfully.

"I would remind you of some of our most important school rules. First years, you will no doubt be instructed further by your teachers on your first day, or find out by breaking them.

"Firstly, there is to be no magic used in the corridors. This is particularly important, as we will be hosting a number of Aurors this year. They will be wandering the school through the day, for your protection, and will brook no arcane shenanigans or thaumaturgical tomfoolery.

"Secondly, as many of you will have noticed, the Ministry has seen fit to send a trio of Dementors to patrol the school boundaries. They are here, of course, because of the recent breakouts from Azkaban. These are dangerous creatures, and you _will not_ stray out of the gates. Should you disregard this warning, detention _for the rest of the year_ may be the least of your worries."

Dumbledore stared around the school with great gravity before speaking again.

"Thirdly and in much the same tone, the Forbidden Forest remains forbidden to all students. The name is meant to be a sort of clue, you see.

"Fourthly, flying lessons begin in the second week. Try-outs for this year's Quidditch teams will be scheduled later in the month at those teams' discretion.

"Finally, I would like to alert you to the fact that the third floor corridor on the right-hand side is now _completely out of bounds_ and that students attempting to enter it will likely die a very painful death indeed."

One or two people laughed nervously. Next to Harry, Pip was frowning. "The third floor... strange, he didn't say anything to the prefects. And that's practically an invitation for some Gryffindors I know. What's he up to?"

Harry frowned right back. "If he was serious about the painful death, perhaps he is trying to thin the ranks of idiots." He was awarded a mildly shocked look for his trouble.

"And now," Dumbledore was saying, "Be upstanding please, and we shall sing the school song." As the school rose with a great clatter, he waved his fork, which turned into a squirrel for a fraction of a second before settling on a slim black baton.

"Those who don't know the words, feel free to just repeat _ner ner_, _ner ner_. Alright, one, two, three!"

The school belted out what could roughly be described as a song, and Harry tried to pick out some of the words. Judging by the amount of _ner ner_ going on, very few people knew them. The generally lacklustre attempt and the English language hindered him, but he was sure he heard a few interesting phrases like "scabby knees" and "bits of fluff".

Until at last, "Bedtime!" Dumbledore called. "Off you go!"

* * *

The crowd moved out of the Great Hall like one huge, noisy, poorly-coordinated organism. Pip and the other Ravenclaw prefects shepherded their first-year charges along between them.

Together the senior students kept up a running commentary on Hogwarts as they went, and Harry tried to build up a picture of the school inside his head. Most of the other first-years seemed to be dead on their feet.

They travelled up two wide marble staircases - "watch out for them shifting" - to the third floor, then down a wide corridor identified as "Archchancellor Bowell's Thoroughfare" to the base of West Tower - "usually known as Ravenclaw Tower, but that's inaccurate". Then came a long, spiralling staircase with landings of irregular shape, and an outsized statue of a duck – or what one prefect claimed was a statue of a shapeshifter in the form of an outsized duck. They passed a wide window over a narrow bridge which spanned the gap to the main keep like a long needle, leading from Professor Flitwick's office in the tower to his separate quarters.

They passed an open doorway which led out into the night air, where a staircase wound bizarrely around the outside of the tower, in perfect step with the one inside, until it reached the school Owlery. Another short staircase somehow led from near the top of the tower to a corridor in the fifth floor of Hogwarts, even though the windows showed empty space where the intervening steps should have passed through.

Finally, the tower split - "like a tuning fork, d'you see? One prong for each set of dorms" - into two towers, their tops bridged by the bulbous Owlery. Immediately below the split, an almost spherical bulge of stone housed the Ravenclaw common room. The group halted on the landing at the top of the stone steps, in front of a sturdy wooden door. They clustered blearily around the prefects.

"Alright, pay attention now," said a tall, snub-nosed girl, pointing to a bronze knocker wrought in the shape of some sort of surface bird which Harry didn't recognise. He didn't think it was a raven, though. "This is the common room entrance. You will need to answer a question or riddle from the guardian's extensive repertoire in order to enter."

She raised the knocker and tapped it once. Instead of ringing, the bird blinked and asked, "Poverty is to honesty as ignorance is to..."

"Bliss," she said promptly, and the door swung inwards.

"If you answer wrongly, you must spend a few minutes out of sight of the door before you can try again. The riddle changes twice daily, at midnight and noon. We're not sure where the questions come from, but there is quite a variance in difficulty, and sometimes it gets rather abstract or bizarre. We seventh-years check each morning that it's not _too_ fiendishly difficult, or that it's not asking for the punchlines for dirty jokes again." The shadow of a memory flickered over her face.

"Professor Flitwick can change it if there's a problem," Pip continued for her. "Sometimes even _we_ have to research the answer. It wanted to know what Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite colour was last year," he added, shrugging. "Alright, come on, then."

Harry gazed about the common room with a calculating eye. His steps made no sound on the deep blue carpet of the large, round room. The ceiling was meticulously painted with the constellations. Below, curtains were drawn across wide, tall windows. Interspersed between the apertures were bookcases of dark wood, jammed higgledy-piggledy with tomes. A few older Ravenclaws were standing around talking, while others had headed to their rooms.

A solid bronze door stood across the room from the first-years. Set prominently beside it was a tall statue of white marble.

"Ravenclaw herself," said one of the prefects as they walked past it, bobbing a curtsey.

The bronze door led up to the dormitories, girls and boys in different 'prongs' of the tower. Pip and another prefect led the six new Ravenclaw boys to their rooms.

There were two dormitories, each a wide teardrop shape comprising a quarter-sector around the central stairwell of the boys' tower. A bathroom took up another quarter, and the doorway to the final sector was bricked up.

Three names in cards were slotted into a rack on each dormitory door: _BOOT / POTTER / ENTWHISTLE_ on one and _CORNER / GOLDSTEIN / CORNFOOT _on the other.

"Here's your dorms," the prefect Harry hadn't met said briskly. "The globes with the candles provide light. Tap them to light or extinguish them. Don't waste candles. No open flames or rough-housing. _No_ practising unfamiliar spells alone." He scowled at each boy to make sure he had their attention.

"We'll be getting you up tomorrow and will help you get to classes, but after that you're on your own. If necessary, learn an alarm charm or, best case, get enough sleep. For the junior years – that's first to fourth – there's an eight o'clock common room curfew and twelve o'clock dormitory curfew. But it's up to you to make sure you have enough sleep."

Harry pointed to a blank metal plate on the dormitory door. "What's this for?"

"For when you've learned locking charms. No more questions? Good. You'll get your timetables tomorrow."

"Goodnight," Pip added.

Terry opened their shared dormitory door, while the other trio of boys disappeared into their own room opposite. Inside, beds and drawers were spaced against one wall. Shelves stood on the wall opposite. The curved tower wall had several large windows, and a long table and chairs stood beneath it. There was a pinboard in one corner, and crystal globes everywhere contained steadily-burning candles.

While Kevin walked over to a window and pressed his slightly haggard face against it, Harry admired the beds. They were large and beautifully carved from a hardwood, but he winced at visible tool marks on one leg.

Their school trunks stood in the middle of the floor. Someone had taken the shrinking charm off Harry's.

"I wonder who brought them up?" Terry asked with a yawn, lugging his own trunk over to a bed and putting his glasses on a side table.

Harry quickly claimed the bed furthest from the windows. He wasn't used to having so much empty space around him, and it would be worse when the view from the window wasn't obscured by night. "I don't know, but they must have seen the three of us talking together at dinner," he guessed.

"Whah?"

"Well, what are the chances that I would be ...rooming, I think you'd say... with the two Ravenclaws I already met, and not strangers?"

Kevin turned away from the window, and his lips moved for a moment. "Ways to divide six into two sets of three is ten, with only one way having no strangers, so: ten percent."

Terry stared at him, then looked at Harry, who shrugged. "Don't look at me. I can hold my own with arithmetic, and that's all."

"I don't even know why I'm in Ravenclaw," Terry said, yawning again, and closing the hanging blue curtains around his bed to change into pajamas. "I'm no great shakes with schoolwork. I just like to write, sometimes draw..."

Harry kept silent, not wanting to discuss his Sorting, but wandered around the room, tapping globes until the candles turned off. How did they burn in an enclosed space to begin with?

Kevin sat staring into the depths of the last one, and waved Harry away to stop him turning it off. Harry asked what the ruffled-looking boy was thinking.

"I was wondering how many trips the train makes each year. How big a village is Hogsmeade?"

"I don't know," said Harry and Terry together.

"I thought it was just for the school," Terry added dubiously, "given it's called the Hogwarts Express. The driver must have a day job."

Harry finished checking the contents of his trunk and closed it again, suddenly feeling exhausted. He tuned out the random chatter of the other two boys, and the last image he saw before he closed his curtains and dropped into bed in relative darkness was Kevin Entwhistle staring into the candle flame.

Harry fell asleep to the sound of wind whistling around Ravenclaw Tower.

* * *

Badluk the goblin replaced the kettle with a metallic _clank_ and held out the pottery cup to his mate. Inscribed upon its side in runes of power was the missive, "World's Best Manager". Beneath the carved marks was a picture of a cross-eyed puppy, embossed in gold.

The smell of acorns, lime galls and bitter-bark accompanied the little plume of steam rising from the cup. Sibilig gripped its handle gratefully in a clawed hand; raised it; drank.

Badluk peered thoughtfully into his own mug, musing. The pair shared a comfortable silence for a while in front of the fire. Both felt, though neither would admit, that the dwelling seemed strange and large and empty without their foster son.

Prettyroot lay coiled on the kitchen table, watching the pair. It was already awkward, with nobody to interpret for the rock worm.

"He will make something of himself," Badluk said reflectively.

"Yes."

"Yes."

Harry's peers of the same age were drawing their numerous apprenticeships to a close, each narrowing themselves to a specific craft or trade. As journeymen, they would travel between various masters, often out beyond the bounds of Underfoot. Within a few decades they would be making their own way, learning all the while, becoming more adept in their chosen field, be it banking or artistry, for the rest of their lives. Each would become a master in the process.

It worked differently for humans, of course.

"Hogwarts School," Sibilig said, without any particular enthusiasm or malice. It was more as if she was trying out the words. "Of Witchcraft, yes, and Wizardry also. He _will_ do well there."

"He hasn't quite developed the vicious streak of his peers."

"I am aware. The thief..."

"Yes."

"Yes. Guilt over ending the life of a thief. Ha. Of course, no child should have to witness murder."

Badluk put down his cup, and yawned. "He sees revenge as a practicality rather than an artform. It is unfortunate, yes? He is dedicated, though. A strange child."

One by one, they enumerated the talents of Harry Potter. The child was a decent, but not skilled, artist. A promising, but not inspired, craftsman. No real knack for numbers, which was embarrassing, but at least he worked hard. No area of metallurgy or stonework in which he excelled, but he was powerful, perhaps the most powerful budding sorcerer of that age in Underfoot.

And he had an intrinsically questioning nature, of course. Harry's deep curiosity and innate skepticism as a child had been seen as a talent by the goblins, who were cautious but not typically given to deep thought. It had set the child off from his goblin friends, and it had been nurtured.

"May it stand him in good stead for his wizarding education," Sibilig said aloud.

"I hope it will be enough. There will be great weights on his shoulders," Badluk muttered.

"We have prepared him. He is well-read, has met many people. He has four great works, four _grisherurs_," Sibilig added, reluctantly counting the two human-made rings of lordship along with the child's goblin-made spectacles and dwarf-crafted staff. The wizard wand was nothing spectacular, really. "This is more than most goblins of his age, yes?"

"Yes. Should we mail him another dagger? I should not have let him leave with only one..."

"He will be fine," Sibilig chided. "The wizards will have daggers if he needs them. He has sturdy wormhide and school supplies and money for books, and we have helped as much cunning and viciousness to bloom in him as we could. He will be fine," she repeated.

"He will make something of himself." Badluk clasped Sibilig to his side, and together they gazed into the embers of the dying fire.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ I knew ending the last chapter where I did was a bad idea, giving rise as it did to people commenting that horses are edible. _Well, yes_. Let me clear this up. _Realistically_, if you brought up the idea of tasty horseflesh amidst modern British schoolchildren, you would be regarded with disgust (I doubt many _wizards_ had to eat horsemeat to get by in WWII). So that's the response we hear from the crowd. _It is not the case that every single thing a given person or group believes is the absolute truth and the correct way of doing things_. If you don't understand this simple principle, then you are going to have a lot of difficulty, and not just in reading this work of fiction!

→ Another thing I've been prompted to mention, though: arguably 'canon' information will keep coming out from Pottermore. I'm afraid that I don't have the time or inclination to constantly go back and revise things like Ollivander's first name now that we know it, so things will diverge a bit from these little new details.

→ Chapter 20, a nice round number, and I'm keeping my eye on the review counter with what amounts to frankly inappropriate levels of excitement. Thanks, as always, for reading and reviewing!


	21. Chapter 21

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 21**

* * *

Harry woke up to the disconcerting sensation of sunlight on his face.

The post-dawn glow from the windows, reflected in a myriad directions by the glass globes scattered around the east-facing room, had chanced upon a crack in the strange hangings around Harry's bed. Now it flooded across his eyelids.

Kevin Entwhistle was sitting at the long table beneath the windows, surrounded by pencils and screwed-up bits of parchment. He looked slightly hollow-eyed.

"Did you sleep?" Harry asked, easing the crick in his neck from the unfamiliar bed, then pulling on his school uniform.

The sandy blonde boy looked up. "Oh... Morning, Harry. Not much. Just trying to write a letter, I hope I didn't wake you."

Harry wandered over to investigate the discarded parchment wads, picking one up and blinking in surprise.

"Paper," the other boy supplied. "I bought parchment with my other supplies in Diagon Alley, but when I saw that real paper seemed to be in short supply for wizards, I brought some of my own."

"Most modern books are printed on it," Harry said. "And there is – newsprint, I think they call it. For newspapers, yes? Interesting." He put the ball aside and chanced a glance out the window.

Distant roofs and even further ground glared back at him. He shrank back.

"If you want to claim one of the shelves, I've already put my stuff away," said Kevin, chewing on his pencil. "And some of Terry's, since he left his trunk out."

Harry glanced askance at the boy. That seemed a little invasive, but perhaps it was a wizard thing. ...Ha, for all he knew, it was a _human_ thing. He scowled, hoping he hadn't missed out on many social mores common to humanity.

Harry turned to the shelves. Things had been thrown onto them completely haphazardly. 'Haphazard' seemed to be Kevin's style; the boy had managed to get _both_ sides of his collar crooked this morning, and a tuft of stray hair was sticking straight up on his head.

Kevin finished whatever he was doing at the table, then sat on the edge of the table and watched Harry stow his possessions. After a while, the boy glanced at his wrist. "Not far gone seven. Breakfast won't be served for more than an hour yet, according to the prefects. Want to wander around?"

"Yes." Harry turned to the third bed, which was emanating faint snores. "Should we wake Terry?"

"It's a little early for most people."

"Really? I would usually be up by now. And you're up, yes?"

"We might be the exception. I don't know how long he expects to sleep." Kevin took a pencil from behind his ear. "I'll write him a note so he knows we didn't just abandon him."

* * *

Harry was secretly relieved to find that the small, teardrop-shaped bathroom next door provided the same functionality in the same way as the ones in Underfoot. He had been a little concerned about weird wizard plumbing.

He readied himself for the day, then walked down through the empty common room with Kevin. Both of them detoured around the room's circumference to glance over the scores of books. On leaving, Harry immediately turned around again to experiment with the doorknocker.

"What goes up a chimney down, but not down a chimney up?" the bird - Kevin identified it as an eagle - asked promptly.

While Harry was still working through the syntax of this, Kevin said, "an umbrella", and the door swung wide. The explanation of how this fit the riddle took some time. Harry resolved to check the question first thing each morning, in case his only access to the common room involved the weird minutiae of surface weather.

They travelled down the winding stairs of West Tower, then stepped through the Exit Arch and spiralled back up the outside of it. Harry kept his face turned towards the stone wall. He had lived with _depths_ all his life, in the tunnels and chasms and ancient magma vents beneath Underfoot. Depths he could handle. _Heights_ seemed to be another thing altogether.

At the top of the steps squatted the dark and slightly rank Owlery. When they walked in, a small owl swooped down and perched on Kevin's head, ruffling his already messy hair. After some fumbling with bits of string, the muggleborn boy enticed it to deliver the letter he had written to his parents. He watched doubtfully as the creature winged off into the distance.

"Gringotts mainly uses message tubes for internal stuff, but owls are meant to be reasonably reliable," Harry said. "Nocturnal, though, so it might take a while to get there. Depending on where you live, I suppose."

"Bristol," said Kevin. "The southwest," he added when Harry shrugged helplessly. "I just hope it gets there at all. My mum wants me to write at least twice a week."

"Yes?" Harry adjusted his glasses for the darkness, looking up into the eaves. "Hmmm. The Owlery at home isn't nearly as varied. I suppose most of these are student owls."

"I guess."

They set off down through the ringing silence of the stone halls, bewilderingly empty of students – it seemed that Kevin was right; wizards slept late, and they didn't see a single other person. Of course, the enormous size of the castle didn't help.

It did help them get lost, though.

Harry thought he had a very good direction-sense, from hunting in the tunnels and occasional forays into the Unfathomable Maze below the vaults. The efficacy of the mental map he had been building up was rather reduced by the possibility, in Hogwarts, that you might walk down a staircase and emerge on a landing two stories above, next to a wall that deliberately tried to disguise itself as a different part of the castle each time you looked at it.

Kevin mumbled for a while about non-Euclidean geometry, and then began to wonder aloud whether they should have brought a ball of string.

They found their way from Ravenclaw Tower to a windowed corridor much too high to be the third floor of the main keep, even though that was the only point the tower actually touched. A faded portrait of an axe-wielding berserker paused in his morning jog to tell them it was in fact the seventh floor, before continuing on his way, axeblade slapping against his naked thigh. Harry had seen wizarding portraiture before – it was on his rather long list of things to investigate, occupying the first five pages of a new notebook – but it took a while for Kevin to calm down and stop prodding the empty canvas.

They set off to look for a downwards staircase, and instead found themselves in a series of octagonal rooms. Each room had four doors, most of them leading into another octagonal room _very slightly_ different from the previous, although sometimes they stepped from a door into the room they just left. After five minutes of rising panic and scores of nearly-identical rooms, Kevin flung all four doors of the current room open, found that one led into a large foyer instead of another octagon, and stepped through.

Harry hastened after him, but resolved to come back with some chalk, a compass, a long rope and a backpack full of supplies as soon as he had a day free.

They stood in the shadow of a statue of a one-legged wizard holding a bunch of carrots, which dominated the seventh-floor foyer. The associated plaque named him "Lachlan the Lanky", and there may have been a story to discover there, but Harry and Kevin were more interested in the flight of marble stairs that led downward.

The sixth floor was a little more navigable, although it was disconcerting when a pair of ghosts drifted up through the staircase right in front of them, deep in conversation.

Harry grimaced. "Everything in this place is either two-dimensional or already dead. No rails, weird stairs, and I bet there isn't a thing to hunt."

"Oh, you hunt?" a familiar voice called in inquiry. "My dad bought me a slingshot to go after rabbits."

Jan Runcorn swung into sight, clinging to the rail of a staircase as it rumbled around across the abyss of the central stairwell towards them. She stepped off as it settled into its new position, and looked Harry up and down.

"There's not much to hunt in a goblin hole, is there?"

Harry silently vowed to correct this widespread idea that goblins lived in holes in the ground. "I think you would be surprised. Did you meet Kevin Entwhistle?"

"Hi Kev, I'm Jan. Cripes, you look a mess. Ravenclaw too, huh? Jolly good, though it's not for me."

She fell into step with them as they continued down the staircases, rattling her wand idly against the bannisters.

"Hey, have you got lost yet? Pretty easy to here. I got up to have a creep around, and still haven't found the ground floor. I wanna see what it's like outside. I heard from some of the seniors that there's a big tree out on the grounds that'll try to do a murder on you if you get too close."

Her eyes gleamed. "Cor! We should go find it, and heave rocks at it or something. Or go for a climb, even!"

Harry and Kevin shared a look.

"I've never climbed a tree in my life," said Harry. "I would probably want to start with something smaller than a 'murder tree', yes?"

"Yeah? Well, you gotta know how to climb! The big forest, you reckon?"

"Well, I was thinking the Great Hall, for a start."

* * *

They headed steadily downward, but stopped on a whim to peer around the wings of the fifth floor. The North Wing in particular looked interesting, as it housed a book-filled study hall on one side and was entirely bricked off on the other. Tattered warning signs hung on the walls. As they explored, Jan rambled on about how weird it was having to share a room with two other girls, and that the Gryffindor boys had it worse, since all four were stuck in one room.

Kevin and Harry felt the same, as neither had siblings. The topic 'family' was therefore quickly dispensed with, and they talked instead about their pets, whilst winding down the central staircases. Then one of Hogwarts' little eccentricities took them into a corridor leading from the second floor up to the fourth floor library, which was currently closed.

"This is going to be annoying to deal with on a daily basis," Harry observed mildly.

Two invisible staircases, one door woven into a tapestry and three moving suits of armour later – and after passing three different doors on three different floors, all of which were marked 'Hospital Wing' – they arrived at the Great Hall, just as people were starting to trickle in from various directions.

"Great," said Jan, wending her way towards the Gryffindor table, then yelling back across the room at them. "I'll see you later for climbing, yeah?"

* * *

Harry thought breakfast at half past eight was something of a luxury. He would have to find something to occupy his mornings. Luckily, going by some of the older Ravenclaws, books at breakfast-time weren't frowned upon.

There were pancakes and pitchers of juice on the table, and _still_ more meat than he was used to. Sausages he recognised and could name; thin strips of hogmeat he could not, although the taste was familiar. Harry also tried 'scrambled eggs', and politely swallowed before moving the remainder firmly to the side of his plate.

"Good morning Mr Potter, Mr Entwhistle! I'm glad to see you made it down on your own! Here are your timetables, boys, try not to lose them."

Harry turned at the squeaky voice. "Ah - good morning, sir!" Professor Flitwick handed him two rectangles of card, and beamed. "It is! It is, a rather good morning indeed. I'll see you in Charms in a few hours, boys!"

Flitwick moved on down the table, his low head level with those of the seated students.

Harry passed Kevin one timetable and began to peruse his own. Each class was an hour and a half long, and they had three or four each day. The core classes seemed to be Charms, Herbology and Transfiguration, of which he had three periods each week.

There was a short break in the morning and a full hour off for lunch. It didn't seem to Harry to be a very busy schedule. There were gaps on Monday and Wednesday, too.

"And Thursday morning free, luckily," added Kevin. "Astronomy the night before."

Harry had to think for a moment before remembering: astronomy was the business of looking at features of the sky at night. "Ah. Understandable then, yes? So, Charms later this morning, and then three hours of Herbology."

"I'm looking forward to Charms," said Kevin, who didn't appear to be eating, but had secured a small jug of coffee for his own use. "Professor Flitwick seems cool. Don't know anything about plants, though. Do you?"

"Not really. Hold, there's Neville. Neville!" Harry called.

The boy flinched, then turned and wandered across the floor towards them, flinching away from a girl whose foot he stepped on in the process. He looked pale and distracted; upset, even. "Uh... hi, Harry..."

"Neville Longbottom, this is Kevin Entwhistle."

"Hi, Kevin."

"Good morning, er, nice to meet you, Neville. Did you have trouble sleeping, too?"

Harry regarded the smaller boy. "Indeed, you look rather ill, yes? Sit down and finish my scrambled eggs, they're... they're very nutritious."

"Oh... thanks, I'm not hungry. No, I..." Neville fidgeted and plucked at his robes. "Some of my dorm-mates were talking about, about the Lestrange breakout. It's... it's kind of upsetting. I'd better get to the Hufflepuff table, actually, or they'll think I got lost again..."

Kevin jerked his head at the boy's retreating back as he stumbled off, asking a silent question.

Harry shrugged, and leaned in to mutter. "Sensitive, I suppose. He seems rather... weak-minded. Unfortunate."

* * *

Hermione, Terry and the others made it down to breakfast later with the help of the Ravenclaw prefects – Terry thanking his two dorm-mates for letting him sleep in.

Harry was getting bored of listening to the excited chatter, which tended to repeat the same subjects over and over. Even Hermione was speculating endlessly about classes; he'd hoped she would prove more interesting.

Harry was just considering going over to find his three acquaintances amidst the Slytherins, when two of the prefects called the group together. Since the Ravenclaw first years had a free period now, they were to be dragged off for an _official_ tour of the castle.

The terse male prefect from the previous night led the way. He was apparently called Robert, although Alice, the talkative blonde seventh-year who was also accompanying them, referred to him as 'Chalky' for some reason. The eleven new Ravenclaws were marched around, learning the main hallways, classrooms and lavatories, as well as the library, headmaster's office, and a few other locations of importance. Harry was amused to see that even the senior students took a wrong turning once.

They walked around for hours, then stopped for morning tea. Finally, they headed back up to the common room - "the answer is umbrella" - to gather their supplies for the day's classes. 'Chalky' Robert and Alice took them down a secret passage to the Charms classroom on the third floor, and then promptly abandoned the young students for their own classes.

Harry focused on learning his housemates' names, making an effort to talk to each of them.

A solemn, meticulous-looking boy introduced himself as Anthony, while Mandy Brocklehurst was pointedly ignoring him for some reason, speaking exclusively to red-haired Morag. A few others hung back from the group, skimming idly through textbooks or doing nothing in particular. Harry was just getting into an interesting argument with Michael Corner about _why_ Hogwarts needed secret passages when the door to the Charms classroom swung open.

* * *

"Come in! Do come in, everyone!" called Professor Flitwick's excitable voice.

The Charms classroom was large and garish: stonework painted bright colours, a chandelier to rival those of Gringotts slowly swaying around the ceiling, and a selection of brass musical instruments on the walls. A huge gramophone stood at the back, next to a large glass display case containing taxidermied fruits and vegetables. One particularly large cantaloupe was moving haltingly around its stand on tiny legs. Several freestanding blackboards – none of them black – were set up around the room, some with ribbons and diagrams pinned to them. The desks themselves looked out of place in their very mundanity.

On a high stool, behind a table whose surface was entirely covered with books, sat Professor Flitwick. He waved his hand and the door closed behind the last of the students.

The Charms instructor immediately called the roll, asking each student to say something about themselves as they progressed. After that he talked about the 'Hogwarts experience', and told them to come to him with any questions at all, or ask a prefect.

Then they undertook strange and mildly pointless group activities such as word games involving people's names, and locating everyone's homes on an old, crackling map of Britain which Flitwick enlarged for the purpose.

It was all rather different from the one-on-one teaching Harry had received from Brother Filius during his forays into Underfoot.

Quite late in the hour, they actually began a lesson. It was at the most basic level, since some of the students had never used magic before: some fundamental theory of magic, a little on proper wand grip, and the invocation of coloured sparks. By the end of the class, everyone had managed to spurt sparkling motes across the floor, Michael had accidentally set his textbook on fire, and Kevin's hair had managed to accrue a scattering of strangely persistent sparks.

Flitwick was rattling on enthusiastically about the exciting history of the Rainbow Charm when he seemed to realise the time. "Ah! That's enough for today. No homework, but practise that wandwork! Enjoy your day, everyone. Mind you're not trampled on the stairs in the stampede for lunch – try wearing a tall hat, it works for me!"

* * *

Lunch was ...interesting. The food was nothing special, although Harry's vocabulary was still expanding with every meal. A lot of the words he had _read_, but he couldn't always match the sounds to the written form.

Most of the older students were loudly catching up with their friends, and his nearest housemates seemed to be arguing about whether only 'bad people' came back as ghosts, and he was getting a slight headache, but still it was ...interesting.

The main reason for this was the writhing, chittering ball of insects that appeared on his plate in the middle of the meal.

It happened while he was staring into space, thinking about the complexity of warding a building as fundamentally volatile as Hogwarts. There were no prefects nearby.

Harry instinctively jerked backwards as the vermin – centipedes, grubs and beetles, for the most part – appeared. Then he grimaced and stared around. A number of faces were turned towards him, from all over the Great Hall. The buzz of conversation rose, and there was a current of laughter.

"Jesus," said Kevin, who was sitting opposite. Terry, beside him, stared at the plate in confusion. A girl nearby bit off a high-pitched shriek.

Harry put an empty dish on top of the plate to stop the crawlers escaping. After a moment of thought, he pushed the platter away. He was finished anyway.

"Somebody's trying to take the mickey out of you, mate," said an older boy from along the table. He slid down the bench towards Harry, then leaned forward and tapped the metal bowl with his wand. He raised it again, showing that the plate was now empty. "Hey, ta-da."

Harry absently nodded his thanks, aware that eyes were still observing his reactions. He observed them right back. Obviously last night's "you don't seriously eat insects, do you" theme had been spread around.

At the head table, only one teacher seemed to have noticed; the Potions professor was staring uninterestedly in his direction. Hermione, though, had got up and was marching up to one of the prefects to report the incident, for whatever good that would do. Harry sighed, and rolled his eyes. If that was the worst he was going to get for being brought up goblin, then he considered himself lucky.

* * *

"I am bored already. _Extremely_ bored ...already."

These were the first words out of Blaise's mouth when Harry approached him in Greenhouse One as they waited for class to start.

Herbology was held with the Slytherins, and they had a double period of it on Monday afternoons. Theodore lurked in the shadow of a large, purple bush, while Hermione compared Charms notes with Padma.

"Bored with classes?" Harry felt compelled to respond, even though he was trying to examine the large, strange structure of glass and metal pipes which was apparently how plants were grown on the surface.

"Oh, the classes we've had – Charms and then Transfiguration – aren't so bad. No, I'm bored with Herbology. All it is, is plants. Plants and dirt. Dirt, plants and dirt." Blaise drummed his fingers fretfully. "And if I'm this bored before it even starts, three hours from now there's probably going to be some sort of explosion."

"There's meant to be some really dangerous plants, though," Michael Corner chimed in from his seat nearby on a bag of compost. "Carnivorous, uh, poisonous, and things. Big teeth. Tentacles."

Blaise looked down his nose at the Ravenclaw boy. "Unless that stupid purple bush tries to eat Theodore, I'm not holding my breath."

"They probably wouldn't give us anything very nasty on the first day," Harry agreed. "Especially not in a room they keep unlocked." Nevertheless, he was feeling glad that he had thought to tuck his knife into the deep pockets of his robes. "As you mention it, though, Jan was talking about some sort of killer tree this morning."

"Boys," Hermione huffed. "Honestly. We're here to _learn_."

"Runcorn is supposedly a girl, actually," Blaise said. "I could see how you got confused though. In point of fact, though, nobody asked you."

"So, Padma," Harry said hurriedly, as Hermione opened her mouth to take the painfully obvious bait. "Are you doing well? You are glad you're not in the same house as your sister, yes?"

The Slytherin girl folded her hands neatly. "Yes, although I don't think I'm fitting into Slytherin terribly well."

"Why?"

She frowned. "The other girls... don't like me."

Hermione was suddenly listening with keen attention, as if desperate to pick up tips on why 'other girls' might not like a person.

"How do you know?"

"They've made it fairly obvious," Blaise interjected dryly. "The problem, you see, is that she is, shall we say, of a foreign appearance – a swarthy nature – an ethnic persuasion – a bit of a wo-"

"Enough," she said angrily. "I'm third-generation English. Why don't they bother _you_, anyway? You're- uh- Italian or something, right?"

He shrugged lazily. "Close enough. It's probably just my good looks and air of mystery that have them hanging on my every word, I suppose. And it helps that I don't really give a damn what they think of me."

Padma and Hermione proffered him identical frowns and cries of "language!" in unison.

Harry, feeling lost, asked for clarification.

"That sounds pointlessly complicated," he said a few minutes later, looking around at the various idling students. "I didn't know that skin colour denoted anything in particular. I had assumed it was the same as with goblins: just lots of, what would you say, _variability_ within a single population, yes?"

"Really? How does that work? What about goblins from other countries?"

"I don't know, but I've seen all shades of skin from grey to green to orange, and a much wider range of physical characteristics than in humans, I would say." Harry began to tick them off on his fingers. "Lots of different eye colours, although yellow is usual, and different shape fangs, pointed chins or different noses, lots of different face shapes, occasional horns..."

"Alright, you chaps, listen up at the back there!"

* * *

They turned around. Professor ...Sprout, Harry recalled – he had read a book by another Sprout, now that he thought of it, something tangentially botanical – had bustled in. She called the class into a rough semblance of attention, and began.

The Professor seemed to be a rather easy-going person, and Herbology itself started off easily. The first-years would each have the responsibility of growing several non-magical herbs over the course of the year, to give them what Sprout called 'the knack'. In class, they would learn about, and sometimes tend to, flora of a more arcane variety.

They had their choice of various surface herbs, none of which were familiar to Harry. Potting mix was heaped in the corner, water was available from a spigot, and pots of all sizes bedecked the benches. It was simple, really. As they worked, Professor Sprout informed them that the Ravenclaw students could take their plants to their rooms, to keep on their windowsills, if they wanted.

Harry tamped down the soil over his seeds, and leaned over the gardening bench to speak to Blaise. "Don't the Slytherin dormitories have windows? Or are you just not to be trusted with herbs, yes?"

"We're in the dungeons, under the Lake, you know," Padma said, fastidiously sweeping the last of the stray dirt away from the table in front of her. "There's not much natural light."

Theodore and Blaise both looked at her in irritation. "You can't tell him that!" Blaise hissed. "It's meant to be a Slytherin secret!"

"Oh, really. What's he going to do? Sneak inside, magically disguised as a Slytherin, and interrogate us about matters of great import in our own lair where our guard is down?"

"My guard is never down," Blaise said, apparently oblivious to the fact that one of the Slytherin girls at the next bench was flicking pieces of twig into his hair. "But you never know. A few of our compatriots are stupid enough for it to work."

His eyes flickered to the three Slytherin boys not sharing their table.

"You lucky mole cubs," Harry sighed. "I'm stuck at the top of a big windy needle with the owls, and you get to be safe underground."

While Hermione launched into an avid defence of the apparently _excessively_ historical Ravenclaw Tower – as if historicity was somehow relevant to the discussion – Harry followed Blaise's gaze to the other Slytherins.

The brutes who followed at Draco Malfoy's footsteps, along with two grinning Slytherin girls, were currently shooting glances his way. They were engaged in the business of miming to each other what he would guess were plates full of bugs. Malfoy himself was wearing a thin smile – if he had been a goblin, it would have been construed as either suggestiveness or indigestion – and kept turning slightly to look for Harry's reaction. Mandy and Morag were working at the same bench and seemed to be getting on well with their Slytherin cohorts, all taking turns to look pointedly at him.

Harry fought down a scowl. It was ...rather pathetic, really. As he turned away to put his finished pots in a neat row, Blaise vocalised a close approximation of his thoughts. "You know, I keep hoping those idiots have some cunning plot which involves _looking_ like they're desperately seeking your attention. Tracey talked about you for half an hour straight this morning. I swear, one facial scar and suddenly the world revolves around you."

"Jealous, yes?" Harry bared his teeth at his friend. "Pass me that trowel and lay your head on the table. Forehead up."

Blaise looked thoughtfully at the implement indicated. "Nnnnno, no, I think I'll keep my face intact, just in case I have some use for it someday. I'm not sure that the attention of Tracey and Draco is worth it, anyway."

Harry continued to quietly exchange banter with Blaise, who described Draco's attempts to lord it over everyone around him, as the Slytherins at the other table grew louder and louder with their antics. It was more than mildly amusing.

He waited until Sprout called their attention again, before glancing at Draco, who was now looking angry at being ignored. Harry filed the boy away in his head under P for 'predictable' and 'pretentious'.

Professor Sprout, obviously noticing the growing raucousness of her class now that all their seeds had been planted, briefly explained how to care for the herbs as they sprouted. Then she moved on to the introduction of an magical plant, meant to showcase some of the interesting features of Herbology.

The plant was a sparkling bright-blue _Nepenthes Praedictas Fatales_, or Pixie Pitcher. Its sickly scent attracted small magical creatures like doxies, pixies and fairies, which fell into the curiously-shaped and paralytic-fluid-filled gourd of the pitcher plant. They were then chewed and digested for nutrition; the bright colours of the prey contributed to each plant's variable colouration.

The professor used various parts of the plant to introduce some botanical terminology, and cautioned that the vast majority of magical plants were _not_ easily identified: many did not move or bite or glow at all, but had uses in potions, or grew exclusively in highly magical areas, or could only be seen by wizards.

Harry immediately began to wonder exactly what made a plant 'magical'. Surely there were mundane plants that could be used in potion brewing. And what of those plants that could be used in potions, but wizards didn't know it? Was it enough that a plant had magic _in_ it – whatever magic was – for it to be a magical plant?

When he voiced his concerns, Professor Sprout looked surprised and enthused at the question. "In fact, my mention of potions may have been misleading. It's only that _most_ plants used in potions are magical, so this is just one of the signs that you are likely dealing with a magical plant. Similarly, there are supposedly plants that glow or move around without any magical at all." She looked thoughtful. "So I would say, then, that a magical plant is any plant that either uses magic, or feeds on magic."

"So how would you, er, determine the magical or mundane nature of a plant, if it's not _obviously_ magical?"

"Well, if you truly needed to be sure, then you could use one of several extremely advanced enchantments designed to draw the magic out of an area or object. If you performed such a series of spells and the plant died, or its function or form changed, or a potion made with it failed, then you would be safe to conclude that it was magical. Now, three points to Ravenclaw for an inquiring mind, and come see me in my office if you want to talk about it more. We need to move on..."

* * *

By the time Herbology ended at five, Kevin was thoroughly smeared with dirt, and Blaise was composing poetry out loud due to boredom.

Harry and his room-mates took their plants up to the large table and windowsills in their dormitory. He read a few pages of his Transfiguration textbook while Kevin and Terry played a few hands of some sort of card game. Then the the three of them wandered around the castle before dinner, Terry talking incessantly about a boat trip he'd once been on, until Jan Runcorn accosted them and dragged them off to the fabled murder tree.

The thing was nothing short of enormous, and it kicked up a storm at their approach. With a few handsigns, Harry activated the distance viewing charm in his spectacles and looked at the wooden marker at the base of the tree. "Whomping Willow," he said, reading the faded letters aloud.

"Heh." Jan started searching around on the ground, picking up sticks. "Cool." The first few in her volley fell short, but the last was viciously swatted out of the air by the tree's near-prehensile limbs.

"Race you to the base of the trunk and back?" Terry asked after a while, grinning.

Kevin and Harry exchanged glances. "I'm thinking: no."

"I wasn't serious, you guys," Terry said, then saw the expression on Jan's face. "I wasn't serious!"

She turned to stare at the Whomping Willow, which continued to shake enormous limbs at her.

After a while, when the tree had lost interest in them, Terry said, "I think we should go in. It must be close to dinner."

Kevin started and came down from whatever castle in the sky he had been inhabiting. "Oh... yes. Jan, are you coming? Jan?"

She reluctantly turned away from the tree, and sighed.

"Ah, horse puckey. Yeah, yeah."

Kevin glanced at her as they made their way across the grounds. "You okay?"

"I'm fine. Eh, maybe a little bit disappointed."

"Disappointed? In the lethality of the murder tree?" Harry couldn't help asking.

"No... no, not that. I just felt like I could have taken him."

"Could have 'taken'... the murder tree."

"Oh, he was a worthy opponent to be sure, but right at the end there he was beginning to show signs of weakness. Cracks in the armour, if you will."

"What? You can't fight a killer tree," Terry exclaimed. "You can't even fight a regular tree! It's a million times heavier than you!"

"And yet, there he was: right on the verge of surrender."

* * *

Dinner was a fairly cordial affair. No insects were involved, and Dumbledore didn't seem to do anything even _tangentially_ related to squirrels.

Afterwards, the young Ravenclaws mainly congregated in the common room, although Hermione and Lisa Turpin were absent, presumably studying. Or "studying _already_," as Michael Corner disgustedly put it.

The older students had taken the best seats, but Pip cleared the first years a spot and asked them about their classes. By now, most of the Ravenclaws who were interested in the fact that Harry Potter was amongst them had taken their turn sitting near to him at meals to grill him with questions, so he was left alone. Harry took the opportunity to fixate on the nearest bookshelf, and began to avidly absorb one of the first tomes he picked up.

Kevin and Terry returned to their muggle card game. After a while, they attracted the attention of Stephen Cornfoot, who sat down and claimed to never have seen non-exploding cards. The pair did a fairly disastrous job of explaining the rules, contradicting each other constantly, and then shuffled the pack for a new game.

Kevin started dealing cards to Harry so that he could play as well. He was about to decline when Manager Bogripple's orders echoed in his mind. "Adopt the manners and mannerisms of your peers", and such.

So Harry put _A Compendium Of Magical Groves And Springs_ wistfully aside, picked up his cards, and did what he always did: try to work out the rules.

And all too soon, it was the end of another day.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ I shall re-route any accolades or gratitude to my friend Tilly, whose enthusiasm was responsible for me _finally_ finishing this chapter.

→ Criticisms and suggestions should be directed at me as usual, perhaps in a review! Even a few words is much appreciated. I read them all, and wish I had time to reply to them all.

→ The next few chapters will go into detail about each class, and after that I will pan out and leave most of the minutiae up to the imagination. Next time: fun in Potions!


	22. Chapter 22

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 22**

* * *

By breakfast on Tuesday, the number of strange glances Harry was garnering seemed to have increased. The initial outright gawking at his scar had fallen off in favour of looks that varied from intrigue to revulsion. He had resigned himself to being known as an eater of bugs, and all that entailed. So far, it meant snide names like "Potterpede" and "The Boy Who Grubbed".

There was a surprising amount of vehemence behind the sentiment, and it came from a markedly Slytherin direction. He guessed that this was more than the simple response to a cultural slip-up: the Sorting Hat's warning about trouble from that quarter based on _who he was_ came to mind. Of course, his comments about not caring for ancestry couldn't have helped.

Reasoning this out didn't make him feel any better about it, though.

After the second burst of apparently choreographed laughter from the Slytherin table across the hall, Harry got up and moved away to sit amongst the Hufflepuffs, with his back to them. Wayne Hopkins was rambling about History class – the boy had apparently been none too impressed by it – while Neville stabbed fitfully at a fried egg.

The arrival of the mail afforded a distraction. Harry received an offer, delivered by a great grey owl, for an owl of his choice for free, in return for the Emporium's use of his name in promotional material. There was also an unsolicited request that he appear at a charity event in December.

Harry read both with mild curiosity, then put the former back in its envelope and rolled the latter back into a scroll, thrusting both into his pocket. He would forward them to his foster parents when he wrote home in the evening.

"I- can I- Harry Potter, right?"

Harry turned.

An earnest-looking Hufflepuff boy proffered a quill and a copy of _The Rise And Fall Of The Dark Arts_.

"Can I have your autograph?"

* * *

That seemed to open the mine doors for half of Hufflepuff to clamour for similar attention.

Even if Harry had been inclined, which - in light of his rather mixed reception at Hogwarts - he wasn't, growing up amidst bankers had ensured that he knew better than to sign anything handed to him.

As the disappointed throng dissolved, Padma Patil and Jan Runcorn eventually managed to clear their way to seats at the Hufflepuff table, converging from opposite directions in a small piece of unplanned synchrony.

"Are we allowed to sit here?" Padma asked curiously.

"How did that girl expect you to sign the tip of her wand?" Jan interrupted, unceremoniously dumping bacon on Harry's plate by way of greeting. "She must think you've got amazing penmanship, huh?"

"I don't know," said Harry, looking dubiously at the hogmeat. "And what is this for?"

"All I see's crumbs on your plate, mate," Jan said cheerfully.

As breakfast continued, she persisted in attempts to make him eat a wizard breakfast, and Harry grew more and more exasperated with the graceless Gryffindor. He ignored her in favour of Padma, who talked about the weird lake creatures she'd seen through the Slytherin common room windows, until somebody tugged at his sleeve.

"Come on, Harry." He turned to find Terry standing behind him. "Transfiguration!"

* * *

Harry fished in his bag for _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_, then set it on the desk in front of him and looked around with interest.

The ground-floor Transfiguration classroom was large, with stained-glass windows set high in the walls. There were several empty cages standing around the room. Another contained a dozen specimens of some sort of long-bodied surface rodent. Some of the creatures were brightly-coloured, and one had a knotwork pattern in its fur; Harry supposed they were the results of semi-successful transfigurations.

Professor McGonagall sat motionless behind her wide desk, a book open in front of her. A tabby cat sat rigidly in front of the book, appearing to examine the students.

All eleven Ravenclaws were seated, and most of them holding whispered conversations despite Hermione's glares, when the hands on the clock above the teacher's desk set upon half-past-nine, signifying that class was due to begin. Harry had found this time-based scheduling strange at first, but it made sense in light of the group nature of the lessons.

At that precise moment, the cat stepped to the front of the wooden surface and transformed into Professor McGonagall, leaning against the edge of the desk and regarding the students levelly. This elicited several startled squeals from the children in front of her.

After recovering from his surprise, Harry smiled toothily, appreciating the trick. The version of the professor that had been seated behind the desk since they came in had not moved at all. He really should have spotted the facsimile.

Professor McGonagall flicked her wand wordlessly at her duplicate, and it shrunk away with a shimmer, turning into a seat cushion.

"Transfiguration," she said, turning back to the class. She presented her wand to them, holding it delicately with a thumb and forefinger at each end.

"One of the most difficult and dangerous forms of magic you will encounter, either at Hogwarts or in later life," she continued, slowly spinning the wand. "I cannot impress upon you strongly enough that I will tolerate no shenanigans, tomfoolery or childish poppycock _whatsoever_ in this classroom. To that end, we will be going over three simple ground rules."

The professor strode to the front of the classroom, and waved her hand. A list appeared on the blackboard. Block letters in coloured chalk at the top said: _Rules Of Practising Transfiguration In Professor McGonagall's Classroom_.

"Rule One: You will not practise transfiguration outside the castle. Hogwarts classrooms have wards which can minimise the harm done when something goes wrong, which it almost _inevitably_ will during your seven years here. These wards do _not_ extend to cover the grounds! If I or any teacher catches you transfiguring objects unsupervised outside the castle, it will be immediate detention."

"Rule Two: You will never attempt to transfigure any living thing, except under the _direct_ supervision of a member of staff. We do not even _begin_ to learn human transfiguration until sixth year, and for very good reason! When we do practise animate transfiguration, it will be on conjured, unintelligent animals. It is not my intent to teach you that it is acceptable to change the fundamental nature of a being able to feel pain – even if the magic is performed correctly."

"Rule Three: If you break a transfigured object, you will Vanish it or find someone to Vanish it for you. The reason for this is simple. As students, you lack the power for permanent transfiguration. When a transfigured object is broken, the form it returns to with time will be dangerously destabilised. A piece of timber, turned into a clay urn and dropped, will become jagged splinters on its return! A glass jar, turned into a piece of parchment and cut up, will revert to dangerous shards!"

She regarded them solemnly, and lowered her voice.

"If you do something as stupid as transfiguring a grandfather clock into a nail and hammering it into a classroom wall, you will leave my Transfiguration class and _you may be expelled_."

Harry frowned. The ...specificity... of that strongly suggested that it had happened. He really, really hoped the professor didn't give the same speech to Jan's class. Or Blaise's, for that matter.

Professor McGonagall tapped the last rule on the blackboard with her wand. "Because it is an absolutely vital safety skill, we will start learning Vanishing relatively soon, even though few of you will be able to master the art before your OWL years. I positively _relish_ the prospect of wasting time attempting to teach it to you if it saves even one foolish student - or an unwitting bystander - from hideous injury."

She put the tip of her wand to the surface of her desk, and incanted a long phrase. Up sprung an animated and partly translucent model of a tall building, people bustling around inside it like blurry ants.

"St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries," she said, and tapped her wand. A decent-sized portion of the model became bright red.

"Spell Damage wing, ward for Transfiguration damage," she added. "Or rather, wards. There are three: reversible, irreversible, and fatal. I am sorry to say that they are all in high demand."

After a solemn pause, she gave a flicker of a smile, and said, "We will return to this point in future lessons. For now, let us review. Brocklehurst, for one house point, explain to me Rule One Of Practising Transfiguration In Professor McGonagall's Classroom."

* * *

The class continued in that vein, the first-years somewhat subdued by the speech they had heard. Soon they moved on to the theory work that would precede them attempting to turn a matchstick into a needle. After a lot of listening and writing, the matchsticks were handed out.

"_Alterligna acus_," Harry intoned carefully. It wasn't a spell he knew, but luckily he had focused mainly on metals in his previous transfiguration work. It took only a dozen tries before his matchstick was a passable needle. He automatically used _mutum ullus_ to return it to its original form, squinting closely at it to make sure he hadn't missed anything, and then looked around at the busily-working class.

"Okay, how did you do that?"

Harry went to reply to Terry, and blinked in concern. The matchstick on the desk in front of the long-haired boy was distinctly thick and orange.

"How did _you_ do _that_?"

Terry prodded it with his finger, causing it to smear. "I think it's partly a crayon, now," he admitted.

Harry stifled a grin, remembering some of his own earliest transfiguration attempts. "You may be having trouble concentrating. Don't even attempt to cast the spell until you've got every aspect of the needle pictured firmly in your head. And make sure your wand is actually touching it, that will help, yes?"

He took Terry's needle and demonstrated, turning it back into a matchstick and then slowly into a needle, then looked up to find Professor McGonagall looming over his desk. "Have you practised transfiguration before, Mr Potter?"

"Yes, professor."

She cast a critical eye over his needle. "A point to Ravenclaw for helping another student, then. You have some talent. However, I would prefer you take another matchstick to practise on, rather than use spells I have not approved to return it to the original state."

She summoned the box of matches from her desk and put a dozen on Harry's desk. "Continue."

By the end of the lesson, Hermione and Lisa had each gained Ravenclaw another point for making their matchsticks thin and pointy, and metallic, respectively. Terry hadn't got his match to look any more like a needle, but he _had_ managed to stop turning it into a crayon, oil pastel or coloured chalk. Harry amiably agreed that this was a step in the right direction.

For homework, due in two days, they were given the task of writing four paragraphs on Vanishing. They each also had to find a historical example of injury resulting from botched human transfiguration or breaking a transfigured object. Harry checked with Kevin that he had properly understood the concept of 'homework', and then they had a short break before History Of Magic.

* * *

Harry was no fool; he had no high hopes here.

A class on _history_, taught by _wizards_? The fact that the teacher was a ghost was just extra froth on the waterfall, as far as he was concerned.

Professor Binns floated _in_ his desk, various scrolls of parchment hovering around him in a spectral haze. The signal that class was starting was the ghost beginning to speak in a fast monotone.

"Boot. Brocklehurst. Corner. Cornfoot..."

The students realised he was calling the register and hastily scrambled to catch up, but the professor didn't seem to take any notice whether he received a reply or not.

At the end, Binns coughed dryly and launched into a terse explanation of what would constitute their year of lessons. There would be an overview of British wizarddom for the first quarter, discussion of the 17th century with a focus on 'goblin rebellions' for the second, and then sorcery during the War Of The Roses in the third. In the final quarter, Binns would focus on one of his specialities, the Giant Wars of the early 1800s.

Then he launched straight into a decade-by-decade monologue on the history of Britain, from the fascinating perspective of a dead historian.

At no point during the class did he look up.

At one o'clock, Professor Binns halted somewhere in the 1760s and slowly floated out.

"Boring," Terry moaned.

"Informative," Hermione corrected primly.

"Depressing," Harry muttered.

* * *

And then, of course, there was Potions.

It was a double period, held with Hufflepuff, in one of Hogwarts' deeper dungeons. Harry and Kevin took the wrong staircase down from the Great Hall after lunch, somehow finding themselves in the gatehouse, and were very nearly late.

Harry had time to get a brief impression of the Potions classroom: austere, filled with books and jars, dimly lit and windowless. He was strongly reminded of Brassruuk's medicinal storehouse in Borogrove Way, where he had learned to suture, and was assailed by a surge of homesickness.

Then Professor Snape appeared through a side door, glowering around the room like some dark-eyed tunnel phantasm from a children's story.

"Sit."

The door closed loudly behind the teacher, echoing in concert with the main doors of the classroom, which slammed shut of their own volition. Everyone hurried for their seats, and Harry found himself at a long wooden bench between Neville and Kevin.

Professor Snape strode to his table at the front and immediately began calling the register. There was a brief pause when he got to Harry, and looked up. "Ah. Our newest _goblin_ student... Potter!"

"Yes, sir," Harry said, fighting down a flash of annoyance at being singled out.

The professor's eyes lingered on him for a moment. "Remove that disturbing expression from your face, Potter. ...Rivers! …Roper!"

The register duly taken, the potions master sneered around the classroom. Harry gave himself a mental reprimand when he found himself automatically interpreting the scowl goblin-fashion. He doubted the professor was really indicating concern over an unrelated elder's increasing forgetfulness.

He snapped to attention when Professor Snape spoke, voice soft but carrying. "I suppose it is too much hope that anyone has read their books?"

There were a few rather hesitant yesses, largely from the Ravenclaws, including Harry.

"Well. We shall see. Potter! Name two herbs that can be used in basic draughts to alleviate stomach pains."

Harry thought carefully, as the professor loomed over him. His potions text mentioned... "Old-Man's-Toes. And, uh, Yellowfeather, in season, yes?"

"Old-Man's-Toes is a fungus, _not_ a herb. And what, pray tell, is Yellowfeather?"

Harry met those dark eyes. "A type of fern. It grows at depths of about five hundred to a thousand feet. It's used in several pain potions, including for stomachs. But only in winter, I think, otherwise-"

"I don't wish to hear your goblin nonsense, Potter. Second attempt. Why do a Charisma Concoction and Syrup Of Translucence use the same rare substance as a base solvent?"

Harry dug his nails into his palms – could the professor be _deliberately_ antagonising him? Why would that be productive? – and thought about it. "I don't know, Professor," he said eventually. "What substance is it? Maybe the two potions share a common ingredient which would react with, say, water, so a rarer substance which they're both neutral in has to be used?"

Snape smirked, and leaned closer, fishing in his robes for something. "Pathetic guess, Potter. I take it you have not properly read the seventh chapter of your textbook. Perhaps you need somebody to help you with the longer words."

The professor's hand came up with a jar full of jagged white grains, which he waved in Harry's face. "Third attempt. Remora teeth in potion-making."

"Sir?"

"How would I prepare the teeth, boy, and for what?"

Well, that one was easy. "Usually by crushing, sir. And for any number of potions. Shrinking Solution... Hecate's Oil... a Draught of Peace and all its variants... ah, that one which makes you forget language skills..."

"Philtre of Miscommunication, Potter. Very well." The imposing figure turned away, to the rest of the class. "Who can tell me what I would get if I boiled a chaldron-weight of dried borage in an infusion of rabbit sputum and dilute harpy tears? Yes, Granger?"

"Gold Zyme, sir! It's the only known remedy for scrofungulus, but the name is actually a misnomer, because it's neither gold nor anything to do-"

"Yes, yes, correct." The professor wheeled. "What about our Hufflepuff contingent? Who can tell me where I might find an achewood gall?"

After a pause, he added, "Put your hand _down_ now, Granger, and go see Madam Pomfrey for an Elixir Of Recollection if you can't even remember which house you were Sorted into!"

Seconds ticked by, while Hermione stared at the surface of the desk, face burning.

"Nobody at all?" A nasty sneer spread across the teacher's face as he stared at each young Badger in turn.

"Er... Greenland, sir, maybe? Er, because I read that the achewood root grows under permafrost?"

"Finally. I will not give points to Hufflepuff for guessing, Hopkins, and be aware that the next time _anyone_ calls out without raising their hand, it will be detention."

Snape clasped his hands behind his back and walked across the room. "I have very seldom had a first year class I considered teachable. You will strive to become an exception to this or you will suffer," he said quietly, and his dark eyes roamed across them.

"In this class you will learn the precise and taxing art of potionmaking. The absolute power inherent in as common an assemblage of items as a cauldron, a knife and a shelf of apothecary bottles is one you may never understand fully, but rest assured that you will at least leave this classroom with an appreciation that magic is more than simple wandwork, whispers and wishery."

He surveyed the utterly silent class, then spoke more sharply. "Our time for practise is limited, so we will begin immediately. You will work in pairs on a basic Burn Salve. If this preposterously simple test of your abilities is completed successfully, we will move on next week to a Boil-reducing Solution, and then a Decongestant Potion. By the end of term, we will have worked through all the basic medical potions, and may move on to a more complex and varied curriculum."

His head whipped around. "Five points from Ravenclaw, Corner. Whatever it is, spit it out. Now. Form pairs at your benches, take the instructions down from the board, and begin."

* * *

Harry bent down to check the flames under Neville's cauldron, brushing away a trickle of sweat. Neville himself had returned from fetching more sea cucumber ink – having dropped the first bottle – and was chopping some sort of root called Djinni's Delight.

Harry could hear Mandy and Morag arguing about who was going to have to touch the crup liver at the bench to his left. To his right, Hermione seemed to be directing not only everything she and Kevin were doing, but Terry and Su at their adjacent cauldron as well.

Towards the back of the classroom, the various pairs of Hufflepuffs were working in cowed silence as Snape swept around the room, angrily adjusting cauldron temperatures and ordering piles of ingredients re-chopped.

"Does this go in now, Harry?"

"Yes." He straightened up to see Neville throw the diced root into the cauldron, and winced.

"Try not to let it splash." Harry peered into the potion, which had started to churn and bubble, and winced again. This one was more of a scowl. "How finely did you chop that?"

"I, uh – fairly small, I guess?"

Kevin looked over from his own table with detached interest. "That's not right, is it? Our pot didn't react."

"I'm, um, sorry, Harry." Neville leaned dangerously over the cauldron and wrung his hands. Harry scaled his sense of the boy's worth down again, and grabbed Neville's collar, firmly hauling him back.

"Careful. Now. I think it needed to be chopped much more finely, yes?" As the cauldron continued to froth, Harry mentally sorted through Arsenius Jigger's discussions of potency and consistency. "Since it's the active ingredient. The whole thing is taking on that purple root colour, so we should be able to simply add more butterwort to make up for it."

As he spoke, he began shredding butterwort into the mixture, fragment by fragment, until the liquid settled down again. "I think we can add a little more Djinni's Delight as long as it's chopped _very_ finely, yes? But it won't be anywhere near as strong."

"Well, I'll add the ink-"

"No, that wouldn't... wait, did you start churning the flobberworm mucus yet?"

"You said-"

"_Cracked shovels_, don't put that..."

Through a process composed of hubbub and desperation, during which their potion changed colour three times, the pair ended up with Neville fetching the ingredients and reading the instructions aloud from the board, while Harry managed the cauldron and everything that went into it.

Their salve was rather mottled and rank-smelling by the end of class, but with Neville removed from the active brewing process, there had at least been no more blunders.

Hermione and Kevin had produced a perfect bottle-green and aromatically spicy salve, which Snape pronounced "relatively passable", awarding them a house point for it. Terry and Su had done a little bit better than Harry and Neville, earning the comment "sub-par". Michael and Stephen had managed to turn their potion into tar, which the professor pointedly vanished without a word.

The Hufflepuff groups had produced what might charitably be called 'variations' on a Burn Salve. They ranged from what was effectively lumps of Burn Wax to a sticky lime-coloured substance which, after tentative stirring, Snape called "possibly the most poisonous example of a medical potion I have ever encountered".

He loomed over Neville's cauldron, raised an eyebrow at the lumpy salve within, and smeared a bit between his fingers. He stood in silence for a while, then simply said, "nearly worthless." As he turned away, Harry nodded in silent agreement.

"At the start of class next week, you will turn in ten inches of parchment on the _proper_ methods of preparing roots, stems and tubers for use in unguents."

He waited until they had copied this down. "Dismissed."

* * *

"What a git," Terry muttered as they headed wearily up one of the many staircases that would take them, eventually, to the Ravenclaw common room.

Harry snorted, stumbling on a stone stair.

"What's so funny?"

"What does 'git' mean?"

"Eh? Like, a berk, a prick, a bastard."

"It means 'romantic conquest' in Gobbledegook."

Terry paled. "The goblin language, right? I... no, that's really... anyway, he's a git in the English sense."

Harry shrugged, turning off down a hallway. "He reminded me somewhat of my jewellery instructor, Bidpruk. High expectations, no mercy, not at all approachable."

"Or he's just a git."

Harry shrugged. "That, also. We'll see, yes? What do you think, Transfiguration homework first?"

Terry groaned. "Can't it at least wait until after dinner?"

"I wanted to explore the library properly after dinner. We have barely seen it."

"Yeah well, you would. Huh..."

They had come up short in front of a door. Kevin almost walked into the two of them, and blinked distractedly. "Wait, where are we?"

"_Cankerous cavern collapse_," Harry muttered to himself. There was a heavy padlock on the door. He absently reached for it. Maybe he could...

"I think it's that third floor corridor. The one they warned us about."

Harry took his hand quickly off the lock.

Kevin had now focused on the door with interest. "What do you think's there?"

"Other than certain death, you mean?"

"You're not even curious?"

"I'm curious," Harry admitted. "I was just hoping to survive at least to the end of my first week of school, yes?"

The three of them stood together, staring at the door for a while.

"Back to the stairs and find our way from there, do you think?"

"Yeah."

"Yes."

* * *

Harry, Kevin and Terry ended up working on the Transfiguration homework during an extended library visit soon after dinner. Hermione, who was already there, joined them.

Harry read about a dozen different forms of Vanishing, each with a different purpose. There were vast regional enchantments set up by magical ministries, which could be accessed to direct Vanished matter into garbage zones around the world. These zones were generally inside volcanoes. On the other hand, there was Vanishing for conjured objects, which simply reversed the conjuration and dispersed them into nonexistence. There was the Vanishing of transfigured forms, and special rules for Vanishing gases, and powerful restricted Vanishing of the sort which destroyed actual matter.

Blaise wandered into the library, almost visibly dripping boredom, and slumped to the table, resting his chin on his hands. Harry ignored him in favour of poring through Bugblatter's _Fundamental Principles Of Alteration_. Blaise rewarded this attention by wiling away the time coming up with ridiculous variations on the Harry Potter Eats Insects Theme.

"Potterfly."

"The Bug With The Lightning Scar."

Harry wasn't really bothered, but was obliged to resolutely ignore the Slytherin.

"Harrypillar."

"The Bee Who Lived."

Terry marked his place with his finger and raised an eyebrow. "Arthropotter," he said, beaming in the manner of an amateur card player laying down an ace.

As the bemused stares of the other boys fell upon him, he blushed and went back to his book.

"Honestly," Hermione scoffed, shaking her hair out of her eyes and not looking up.

* * *

That night, Harry watered his seeds on the dormitory windowsill, laboured over a letter to Badluk and Sibilig, and went to bed.

He lay awake, staring at the strange clothy canopy of his strange large bed in the strange tower room, and tried to find his place in this world.

After some time, he drifted off, and dreamed of bubbling cauldrons and deep, beautiful caverns and Bugblatter's Third Equation.

* * *

"Unfortunately, circumstances have left us temporarily without a teacher for this class. However, Professor Dumbledore has arranged for a former Hogwarts professor to return to a teaching position, and he should arrive in time for your next class on Friday."

Professor McGonagall was introducing the Ravenclaws and Gryffindors to Defence Against The Dark Arts. It was a double period in the morning, held in a sparsely-furnished classroom with burn marks in one corner. There was a distinct air of excitement in the room, apparently not abated by the lack of an instructor.

Professor McGonagall called on a Gryffindor with his hand raised.

"Is it true there's a curse?"

The professor's lips thinned, and she seemed to choose her words carefully. "While it is true that Hogwarts has had a run of particularly bad luck in staffing the Defence Against The Dark Arts position, and there are various persistent rumours, I don't think we need to conclude there is an actual curse in play."

Michael leaned over to whisper to Harry. "They haven't had a teacher last more than a few years since the rise of You Know Who, apparently. And often not even that."

Harry nodded, thinking. He wasn't surprised that there was no teacher available this year. Fairly reliable rumour had it that the man Quirrell had taught here for five years, then applied for the Defence position, and hadn't managed to teach a single day in his new position before ...well, he didn't really want to think about that.

Harry, through Gringotts and the Brotherhood, knew at least the rudiments of cursebreaking. It was nothing short of _absurd_ to think that a curse could be placed on something as abstract as a position, or even a name. A curse - in the broad sense of the word of course - had to be anchored to a place, person or object. Some physical thing.

It might be possible to set up some ward reacting to the _phrase_ "Defence Against The Dark Arts". Harry was no expert, but that sounded like it would be hideously complex, and easily detected. Easily solved, too, by changing the class name, but surely they'd have tried that.

Harry scribbled ideas on his notepad. Even if the actual numbers were available somewhere, he didn't have anywhere near enough mathematics to be able to work out the chance that the 'bad luck' really was simple coincidence. Maybe he could write to one of Underfoot's actuaries.

Professor McGonagall was still speaking. "For today's introductory lesson, Auror Jason Carrington will be speaking to you about some of his experiences from many years of actively fighting the Dark Arts."

She gestured to a scarlet-robed man with an eyepatch, standing near the door. "Auror Carrington, if you will?"

* * *

Auror Carrington's stories, at least in the second part of the double period after he had introduced them to the idea of Defence, were enough to keep everyone on the edge of their seats. Harry noticed with some amusement Ron Weasley's mouth hanging wide open as he listened.

Carrington held back the grisly details, despite the Gryffindors' questions, but it was interesting to hear about the usual character of dark wizards and the easiest ways to deal with hags. The stories were interspersed with a bare-bones introduction to 'magical' (wizard) law; who to report cursed objects to and so on, which Harry found almost as interesting.

Defence Against The Dark Arts led naturally to a lunchtime discussion of Black and Lestrange. People never seemed to mention just one name without the other.

Hermione persisted in giving Harry sympathetic looks, no doubt having read extensively about Black's history. It was a little annoying, even if well-intentioned.

"Auror Carrington seemed very competent," she asserted earnestly. "I'm sure they'll both be caught very soon."

"When the Aurors do catch them they're going to be Kissed," Michael Corner said with apparent excitement.

"I don't care how many times you explain it, that still sounds weird to me," Terry muttered.

"What's with the face, Potter?" Michael added.

Harry shook his head, fiddling with a 'butterknife'. What was the _point_ of making a knife without a, well, point?

"Using Dementors is barbaric," he replied eventually.

"Well, what would happen in-" the blue-eyed boy was obviously searching for an acceptable phrase - "in your world?"

"For the crimes that put them in prison?"

"Yeah."

"Execution."

"That's wrong," Hermione said primly, covering her mouth for a moment.

"That's life," Harry shrugged. "Those who help to fill charnel houses are doomed to fill them early."

He cocked his head, immediately aware that hadn't translated into English very well.

"You can't..."

"I shall be the first to admit that I don't fully understand the English word 'soul'," Harry said, laying the knife down decisively and waving his hands vigorously to halt Hermione's next objection.

"But it appears to be tied to a notion of immortality – aeons of reward or punishment, yes? If the Dementor's Kiss destroys this so-called 'soul', then in doing so it consigns a person to utter oblivion, like that Vanishing spell we were reading about. Whereas mere _execution_ would simply bring about those aeons earlier. Yes? And if the Kiss _doesn't_ work like that, then what does it do? A blade is simple. It kills. But the word 'Dementor' seems to only appear in sentences that also contain the word 'torture'."

People were giving him looks of discomfort or simple non-understanding. Sensing that pushing any more might cause things to break, he dropped it.

"Anyway, that's how it is with the Brot- with goblins. All murderers and psychopaths are executed. If they are without _reason_, they are without _worth_. A liability, is your word for it. So they get a choice: noose, sword or axe. Most go for axe. It's a different matter if the crime is something done in the second's heat-"

"The what?" Kevin frowned. "Oh, the heat of the moment."

"Ah, yes. If exchange of blows leads to death, it can be different. There is exile, in the worse cases. A goblin might go his whole life and not finish making restitution for it. The family might demand the right to _fleskgyldr_ - ah, I suppose you'd say _scar-cutting_, it's when they can disfigure the culprit but not diminish his ability to toil..."

"But- but that's _awful_. And all, all lives should matter," Hermione said in horror. Several of their classmates pushed their plates away, appetites apparently diminished.

Harry had always taken goblin justice for granted, never really thinking about it. He waved his hands around again, wondering how he could _begin_ to explain the whole metric of acceptable risk and loss, the waste of resources in guarding someone offset against the innate worth of life, the cost of loss of potential due to murder, the probability of reoffending, and so on.

It didn't help that some small, treacherous part of him thought that she was _right_.

* * *

That afternoon, Transfiguration class found Harry gritting his teeth in a grimace of puzzlement. It seemed that the class would not move forward until everyone could handle the matchsticks-to-needles trick.

Funny to think that he'd been worried about his grounding in goblin magic holding him back.

By halfway through the period, Harry couldn't call the spell anything but well and truly mastered. Hermione and Lisa seemed engaged in a silent race to be the next, but neither could yet produce a perfect needle.

...Nothing left to do but experiment, then. The spell was specifically for matchsticks to needles. What would that allow, then? How _long_ could he make a needle? How large could he make it, using only the materials afforded by the matchstick? What metals could he transfigure it into? Could he make several needles from one match? What about casting the spell on two matchsticks? What if he used half a matchstick? What if he tried the spell on a long, thin piece of match_box_?

Professor McGonagall, collecting up the class's efforts at the end, raised an eyebrow at the tangled assortment of mismatched metal and wood on Harry Potter's desk. She made no comment, reasonably sure that the boy would have let her know if he had lost the knack overnight.

* * *

"What're you doing?"

"Examining the grass of your surface lawns."

"You can't possibly be that bored," said Terry. "And they're not my lawns."

Harry raised his head from the lawn. "What? Why would I be bored?"

There followed a brief pause, which Harry had begun to identify as him having said something which caused a disconnect in the minds of fellow students.

"I think most people just lounge around in their free periods," Kevin ventured.

"That's what you're doing, yes?"

"Well, we kind of followed you out here, since you seemed to have some sort of goal."

Harry plucked a leaf of a different shape and held it up to his glasses. "I was planning to research the killing curse this afternoon, but it looks like all the books that go into any detail are restricted to older students only."

"The 'killing curse'? Macabre. Why?"

Harry rolled onto his back and tapped his scar. "I want to know what happened."

"Oh, that's right, that- yeah. Can't you ask..." Kevin trailed off. "Yeah, I guess not, huh."

Terry frowned. "I've only heard what the other boys have said about you and ...well, what happened to you. I, uh, don't know which bits are just made up. All this stuff about a Dark Lord... it sounds like a story. I mean, sorry, if you don't mind me saying."

Harry scowled back at him. "I'll tell it to you sometime. Action, adventure, really wild things. What a story, yes?" In truth, he was rather amused by how hesitantly his dorm-mates were dancing around the topic, presumably out of some misplaced concern for his feelings.

"Sorry if I brought up bad memories," Terry said, abashedly scratching his head.

"Memories? I was _one_. I have had a mother and father since I can remember, yes? Can you eat grass?"

"What?"

"Grass; is it edible?" Harry elucidated.

"No...?"

"Poisonous?"

The other two boys glanced at each other and shook their heads.

"Cows eat it," Terry said helpfully. "But they've got extra guts and things, I think."

Harry nodded. Disappointingly, he hadn't found any creatures on the Hogwarts lawns. Maybe there were wards to keep them away, or maybe the fauna of the surface world wasn't as diverse as he'd been led to believe.

* * *

Astronomy was held late that night in the tallest tower of Hogwarts, along with the Gryffindors.

Professor Aurora Ambia Sinistra was tall and gold-bangled, and introduced herself by her full name in a deep, lilting voice. Harry noticed that she occasionally muttered strange and incomprehensible things while the class assembled. Perhaps it was some habit of astronomers.

The disconnected muttering continued even while the professor took the register. Kevin was therefore given the distinction of being called out as "Kevin Entwhistle, Radnar, Radnar". For Hermione, it was the inscrutable "Hermione Granger, Virgo and Mercury."

When she got to Harry, Professor Sinistra said, "By the Moat of Moggoth, Harry Potter", which was depressingly similar to how other teachers had reacted.

Harry decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. He hadn't had any real experience with astronomy, _per se_, although he had learned a little 'astrophysics' from his precious few 'human muggle science books' (Badluk's phrase).

Or, at least, he had learned enough to know he didn't know much. But his fingers had been itching to take apart his telescope ever since buying it. Maybe he'd get the chance to in class sometime.

As it turned out, what the students got was a speech introducing them to the "wonders of the cosmos, whose mysteries we may never hope to fully understand". This irked him on a fundamental level, although he couldn't quite put into words the reason why.

"...completes an orbit once per year, during which it completes its own axial turn almost exactly the 365 times of the inferior _calendar_ year. I saw the Eye, over the horizon, like a rising sun. The turn of the planet gives rise to seasons and to tides, to the migration of birds, to the mysterious lights of the north, to, to... yes? Mr Potter?"

Harry, unable to contain himself any more, had politely raised his hand.

"Professor, why exactly are there lessons in astronomy at Hogwarts?"

The students giggled, and Professor Sinistra bristled in the moonlight. Harry was already wondering if he might have phrased that better.

"Mr Potter, Hogwarts has instructed in Astronomy since its _founding_, centuries ago. Rowena Ravenclaw _herself_ offered tutelage in the field, which surely commands respect," she said severely. "Historically, understanding of the universe has been the domain of the uppermost echelons of society."

"But why is a relatively mundane subject _still_ taught, though? Has the, ah, curriculum of the school not changed over the centuries?"

Now her eyes were narrowed.

"Rad, Nar. Mr Potter, feel free to spend more than half an hour in my class before you decide whether you are interested in it! Astronomy is an incredibly complex and mysterious field of study!"

Harry amended his question one last time. "What I meant was, I am confused because astronomy seems to be a non-magical 'field of study'. And yet it is a core class, yes? Why not other sciences?"

Professor Sinistra hooded eyes widened a little from what had been a hostile stare, made eerie in the dim light. "Mr Potter, I will leave aside the historicity of this class and its permanent fixture in any remotely classical education. By the Stone of Daggoth," she mumbled, and stood ramrod-straight.

"I could speak to you of solar winds and calendar rituals, the breathing of the planet, the prophecies of the comets, places and times of great import. I know of the great flows of power in the sky, the mysterious balance of the arcane and the stellar, the dance of seasons and the position of all things magic and mundane amongst the stars. The fundaments of magic lie firmly upon the rigid and timeless geometries of the planets and stars! However, you are simply not equipped to appreciate these mysterious complexities without a proper groundwork! You seem to think you know everything, when you know nothing! If we could _please_ return to our lesson?"

The class giggled some more.

Harry kept quiet, hoping the darkness was hiding his flushed face. He _knew_ several things.

He _knew_ that everything in the universe was moving relative to everything else, in what amounted to all directions, and that 'the rigid and timeless geometries of the planets and stars' was therefore essentially non-existent.

He _knew_ that having any interest in the night sky whatsoever was unrelated to magic, if the sorcerers of the Brotherhood were anything to go by.

He _knew_ that if he heard the word 'mysterious' one more time that night, he might have to jump off this tower.

He also _suspected_ that he had made an enemy of at least one teacher today.

An hour later, the young Ravenclaws and Gryffindors stumbled wearily to their respective common rooms. Harry went to bed with a headache, and dreamed of matchsticks amidst the stars.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ Trivia: I wrote most of this chapter with a family-sized peanut butter jar full of cicada husks in front of me.

→ So, Snape is one of those characters for whom everybody has their own opinion. The only thing I can really say without fear of controversy is that he's an undeniably _complicated_ character. Snape has a major role in every single book - unlike, say, Sirius or Voldemort - and these roles are very fluid. There are about a dozen fanon versions of him, all of which are easy to write, and them there is the canon version, which is almost impossible to write. While I don't think I truly hit the mark here, I'm satisfied with how close I got.

→ Anyway, I'd just like to say that I'm glad to be able to bring you another chapter. I don't think I managed to write a single reply to your reviews last time, which is a new low, even for me. So, um, sorry. Please continue to review, whether you've found a typo, or have some constructive criticism, or want to make any comment at all.


	23. Chapter 23 (I)

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 23 (Intermission)**

* * *

Harry awoke at precisely the hour he was accustomed to, sneezed, and groaned. That was _not_ enough sleep after such a late night. Memory of the cold breeze and the wide-open sky and the astronomy teacher's slightly luminous eyes rushed through Harry's head as he lifted it from the pillow.

Watery dawn light trickled into the dormitory, lapping over Kevin where he sat at the writing desk. The boy's sleep-mussed hair and dark-ringed eyes gave him the appearance of a cave ghast.

"Morning, Harry."

"Morning, Kevin. _Ash and fulcrums_, my head feels like it's full of pupating slitherlings."

"Of what?"

"Ah, never mind."

At breakfast, Harry borrowed the Thursday Prophet from an older Ravenclaw. He seemed to be one of a small of handful of younger students who made any attempt to read the newspaper, and most of _them_ just wanted the Little Spellers' Crossword on page eight. At age eleven, most of the human childr- most of the _other_ human children didn't read anything they didn't have to.

The paper was a habit Harry was trying to get into, on his parents' advice. It was difficult; the news was so often vapid or just unintelligible to him – he had no idea why a lot of the content was considered 'news'. And then there were all the names and places he didn't recognise, but which were bandied about like the small, disgusting lichen cigars which a certain class of middle-aged goblins favoured.

Towards the end of the squawking cloud that represented morning mail delivery, and before Harry had got past the front page, a charcoal-grey owl dropped a letter in front of him and absconded with the single piece of bacon that had found its way onto his plate.

The parchment was smooth and cream-coloured and filled with sapphire-blue ink in rows of neat, slanting handwriting that spanned several feet.

He read it.

Then he read it again, unsure whether it was a joke.

Different bits of the letter kept dragging at his attention. The name at the bottom, "Lady Helena Vanderbald". The reference to "my son, Blaise". The words "sponsor" and "options" and, at one point, "adopt". Phrases like "begin the process of lodging affidavits" and "third cousin to the then-Earl of Leicester" and "lines from the Houses of Edward and Augustus".

Then there was "thereby enjoying the opportunity to learn the decorum essential for a young man of exceptional breeding", that was a good one.

"Problem, Harry?" Terry had finally emerged, yawning, for breakfast. His other dorm-mate didn't seem to be a 'breakfast' person.

"Well. You know Blaise?" Harry asked slowly.

"Um, yeah. Tanned boy. Fidgets."

"Apparently fewer than a thousand people have to die for him to become King of England."

"Huh?"

"Also, his mother appears to have _decreed_ that I will become her son. Or... something." Harry turned the letter over, in case he'd missed a part.

"Ah." Terry digested this for a moment, then looked down at himself. "Gosh. Normally when I dream I'm being talked at in gibberish in a public place, I'm standing there naked. I guess I lucked out this time."

Harry stared at him.

Terry pinched the back of his hand. "Ow. So, it's for real?"

"It appears to be a real …I hesitate to use the word 'offer'," Harry finished. "It's fairly strongly-worded. I'd better go send a copy to my parents, actually."

* * *

The crowd around the staircase was densely-packed. It said a lot about Harry's impressions of the Wizarding World that he immediately assumed there'd been some sort of terrible accident, and that people had congregated to watch and gossip about it.

After hoisting himself onto a stone pedestal to see over the heads, his hypothesis only slightly changed.

"What's going on?" Harry asked aloud, watching the teetering figures on the stairs.

"Weasley twins," said an older boy in a Hufflepuff tie, gloomily. "Up to no good – as usual."

Harry appraised the pair. He'd heard about them already from the Ravenclaw prefects, and in rather different tones from Jan Runcorn.

The twins were gangly, but still more muscled than most young humans he'd seen so far. And they moved with a disconcerting coordination that suggested they'd practised it. Even if he didn't know their motivations, this was something he quietly approved of.

Of the fact that they had apparently cajoled two suits of armour into giving them piggyback rides up and down the staircases, not so much.

The inevitable happened, and Harry thoughtfully watched the clanging, clamouring heap resolve itself, before disappearing towards the Owlery when Professor Snape turned up.

* * *

After copying out the entire letter for Badluk and Sibilig, and wishing he knew a clerk's charm that would save him the labour, Harry went to the library for the remainder of his free period. Then it was time for Herbology, and a confrontation with Blaise, in which Padma had plucked the fine parchment from Harry's hand before he had got a few words out.

The Slytherin girl read it with interest, as Blaise shifted from one foot to the other in agitation. Professor Sprout was circulating through the class, who were meant to be separating the rhizomes of Heterochromic Irises.

"So, 'Vanderbald', not Zabini?" Padma said. "I'd have thought it might be double-barrelled, actually."

Blaise winced. "If she just added on a new surname each time she remarried, she'd have twice as many names as Dumbledore. Can't believe she wrote to you _already_," he added quietly.

"I like the fact that she points out I'm an orphan three times," Harry commented, reading the letter again over Padma's shoulder.

"These bits about 'appropriate fiscal considerations' and 'care of the estate' and 'proper grooming' are interesting," Padma said. "Makes it sound like you're a horse. Are you really in line for the throne, Blaise?"

"Nine hundred and thirteen ahead of me at her last reckoning," Blaise replied, expression dark, "and she keeps an uncannily close eye on the count. There were quite a few more at the time I was born. One of them was my father."

His cheeks coloured a little. "It's an earnest offer, of course, but my mother- she- I mean, I'd be happy to- but Harry, you're not going to..."

"You thought I might accept?" Harry frowned, a flicker of anger burning in him. He wondered if he would ever shake the public assumption that he had some sort of miserable life of toil and squalor amongst the goblins.

"Well..."

Harry shook his head and took the letter back from Padma. "Don't be ridiculous. I'll hold onto the original in case there's any legal stuff my parents need to deal with."

Blaise winced. "And they'll reply to her, will they?"

"Of course."

"Yes, that's going to go down well."

* * *

A neat row of rhizomes on the bench in front of him, Harry watched the bee fly in lazy circles and occasionally bounce off a window pane. Blaise, Padma and Terry had fled from it to the far end of the bench, and even Theodore was keeping a cautious eye on the tiny, fuzzy insect.

The sting, he was informed, was extremely painful. Harry observed the droning creature warily, and when it got a little bit too close, jabbed slightly at it with his wand. To his surprise, the yellow-brown buzzer banked sharply in the air and flew off at speed.

Had it just been the motion of his wand through the air? Or were bees a magical species? He pondered aloud, but no answers were forthcoming – even when his schoolmates cautiously returned to the scene of the bee.

* * *

Come lunchtime, Harry was not particularly hungry. Ignoring the chivvying of Blaise and Hermione, he followed a single bee as it danced sluggishly across the grounds, scrambling around between the little pale yellow surface flowers.

He lost track of the insect as it joined several compatriots in a bushy plant near the edge of the forest. A few flicks of his wand sent the bees' random patterns into new, sometimes more geometric shapes. Conjuring coloured motes, as Professor Flitwick had shown them, seemed to have no more effect than aimless jabs. Interesting.

The Forbidden Forest looked calm and sedated. Not at all like the fungal forests of the Below, and yet unlike the semi-ordered medley of Greenhouse One. Stippled sunlight made an intricate mosaic of the forest floor.

The iron-grey water of the distant lake looked much more forbidding – too forbidding to tempt him to make contact with the merpeople. Perhaps at the end of the year, when surface Summer would be making an appearance again. And he might, too, find the time to become just a little more comfortable around water.

Harry shivered, thinking of disastrous tunnel floods, and turned back to the forest. It felt... alive somehow, and watchful, but at ease. Like a beautiful, venomous lizard trying to warm its cold blood on a rock not quite radiant enough. Not ready to strike, but still filled with understated menace.

Bees buzzing above him, Harry lingered at the edge of the treeline for a while, thinking about centaurs.

He walked slowly along the edge of the forest, following the fascinating flow of bees until their scattered thrumming became a low roar.

Ragged rows of small structures, made of wood and clay and woven reeds, stood in a small clearing. They were clearly manmade, but bees thronged around them, flying in all directions through the woods.

At the edge of the clearing, lying exactly on the line that divided the pristine turf of Hogwarts school grounds from the dry undergrowth of the Forbidden Forest, was a sprawling wooden dwelling. Several small saplings had sprouted in its thatched roof. A woodpile was stacked high against one wall, and a crumbling stone water trough lay empty near the massive wooden door.

A small, ragged garden had lain down to die out front. Harry looked at it carefully. A mere natural inclination to rambling chaos and a dire need of weeding couldn't have achieved the effect this garden did; surely trained engineers of wrack and ruin had worked hard for _months_ to coax it into the state of disorder and decay before him.

Harry jumped a little at a prickling sensation, and carefully brushed off the bee that was stumbling across his collar.

When he looked up again, it was to a cry of "'ere, you! What d' you think yer doin', pryin' an' snoopin' around?"

Rubeus Hagrid had just rounded the corner of the hut, smeared with soil and a shovel over one shoulder. The giant man's paces slowed as he focused on Harry, and a look of confusion shot across his broad face, which was etched with weary lines.

"Er, ah – huh, Harry Potter."

The man brought the shovel down to bite the earth between his boots, and his broad fingers fidgeted with the handle. "That was, ah, some brave work you did below th' bank, Harry. Never got th' chance to say so. Now though, yer, ah, best scram back to th' school. Yer not meant to be this close to th' forest, y' hear?"

Harry nodded slowly, and glanced back at the bee-houses again. Maybe he could find a book that would tell him how to make them.

The gamekeeper opened his mouth again, but stopped. Then he suddenly bit back a swearword and brought his vast hand up to the side of his neck. It clenched into a fist, and then dropped several crushed insects to the turf below. "Ruddy bees. Bleeders don't seem ta like me fer some reason."

"So I see," Harry said, and nodded politely before turning to leave the clearing. "Very well, good day, Mr Hagrid."

Only silence, and the background humming of bees, drifted after him as he left the forest's edge.

* * *

Hermione had saved Harry lunch, which he dutifully ate some of, ignoring her fussing. Following that came Transfiguration, which featured no new content, only an hour and a half of practise with matchsticks. Couldn't people have worked in their own rather ample free time, so the instructor could move on and show them something new?

Harry swished his wand back and forth, slurring the incantation more and more, until his latest half-transformed matchstick responded by leaping into the air like a glittering salmon. It curled into a ring of shiny wood, did an acrobatic pirouette off the surface of the desk, and rolled into a crack in the stone floor.

He was docked one House Point for 'messing around', to his shame, and Professor McGonagall stood near his seat for the rest of the lesson.

The Ravenclaws had their final period free, as flying lessons hadn't yet started. Harry wandered the castle alone, missing the more _alive_ caverns of Underfoot, and for the first time feeling a little more frustrated than fascinated with the unique space-bending architecture of Hogwarts.

* * *

He had found what should have been the entrance to a secret passage, but this time, it took him to a low-ceilinged stone room filled with exhibits in wooden display cases. A wooden sign had _Alcove Of Curios_ carved into it in heavy Germanic text, and Harry was fairly sure he wouldn't be able to find it again if he left.

His feet stirred up a leaf litter of dust, mouse bones and discarded placards as he wandered the room. A blackened iron shield told the story of how important it was to go against a dragon well-equipped. A three-eyed rabbit once abjured by Deacon Rothe of Banffshire floated pickled in a jar.

There was a high-backed chair upholstered with nauga hide, now yellowed with time. It must have required literally hundreds of horned nauga to gather enough skin. Or, perhaps- Harry made a note to look up whether there was some larger type of the troll-frog that he hadn't heard of.

Behind dusty glass was an assemblage of items on a crude mannequin. A long cloak lay over some sort of heavy, high-necked gown. There were elbow-length gloves, a wide-brimmed hat and a stiff leather mask with built-in eye goggles of brass and smoked glass, with a long, strange beak. The black leather and canvas of the costume was smeared with what looked like beeswax.

A simple wooden cane, shorter and thinner than Harry's staff, was propped against the helmet-like mask. A spider had spun its web in the gap between them, and then died, left to hang indefinitely in the threads of its own trap.

Harry read the accompanying set of placards with interest.

_The raiment of plague doctor **Guie Hansjepetto "the Loony"** (equipment in de Lorme style, recovered 1637). Hansjepetto, although commonly regarded as little more than a squib, went out amongst muggles in 1620, a time when few wizards left their community, to practise healing the Black Plague amongst those afflicted. This plague had a simple magical treatment, introduced from Greece, that ensured no deaths in Britain's wizarding community. Hansjepetto's journal suggests he used it to cure several hundred muggles, for which he was cautioned and then arrested by the magical authorities of the time._

_The journal also indicates that Hansjepetto himself contracted the plague no less than four times over the course of his ministering, putting the lie to the contemporary muggle verse stating that the type of garment displayed here would ensure_

" _That foulsome air may do no harm,_

_Nor cause the doctor man alarm,_

_The staff in hand must serve to show_

_Their noble trade where'er they go "_

_Said staff was the nonmagical cane on display here, a rod used by muggle doctors to examine their patients with a reduced risk of contagion._

Harry shuffled the last dog-eared piece of card out from behind the others. He squinted, trying to read ink half scoured off by passing years.

_Hansjepetto "the Loony" is largely remembered for his multiple indiscretions resulting in breach or near-breach of the Statute of Secrecy. These indiscretions led to his wand being removed from his person and incinerated, his estate confiscated, and his chest marked with the Malefactor's Brand. Records show that in 1635 he was tried as a witch by muggle provosts and executed by sword._

That said it all, really.

* * *

The dust and decay of the Alcove Of Curios was affecting him, and Harry stepped out into the corridor. The door sidled away from behind him and disappeared around a corner. He massaged his temples in an attempt to rid himself of a headache he hadn't even realised he had, one that had been building all afternoon.

He had to _do_ something, he had to do _something_. He had to talk to someone not involved in this world. He was sick of being surrounded by people who treated him like a curio, a specimen on display.

He was annoyed at Professor Sinistra's belittlement and Draco Malfoy's persistent childishness and the likes of Lady Helena Vanderbald. Irritated at the tone Hermione had used when she couldn't believe he didn't know what a _beehive_ was. Wearied by a whole culture that he felt was exemplified by the story of Guie Hansepetto "the Loony". Bemused and perhaps slightly frightened by the whole new world around him.

He was aware that there was a little _bit_ inside him, a tiny little bit that had driven him to go seek out the wretched grue in the unlit tunnels when everyone thought he was at Grammer Burlap's puppet show – sought them out with neither torch nor sulphur match in his meagre inventory, and lucky for him they hadn't turned out to be real. The same little bit had got him lost in the Hundred Shale Valleys once, looking for bigger and better fossils. The little bit had always led to shame, led to there being _words_, and he wasn't sure why it kept coming back.

Pacing through the corridors, Harry tracked his fingers along the wide fifth-floor windows that overlooked the Black Lake. He suppressed a shiver at the sight of it. Yes, certainly too cold …and _wet_... for merpeople. And he didn't want to seek out the house elves; from what little he'd read of them he didn't know if he could bear it. Not without engendering trouble and fury of a magnitude he'd seldom known before. Filius was too old, too tied to the school to understand.

Which just left...

* * *

"Jan," Harry said. "Can you set me up a meeting with those twin Weasleys?"

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ I'm back, kind of, and my apologies for the long absence are as numerous as they are genuine. Over the last fortnight or so, I've patched this (what I'm calling an 'intermission' chapter due to tone, length and pacing) together from bits and scraps. I'm sorting various notes on other chapters to come. For full details, check out my user page. Thanks for your patience, and as always, please leave a review.

→ A public service to anyone who likes stories like... well, this. I'd like to recommend to you four quite different fics.

→ I've mentioned "When In Doubt, Obliviate" by Sarah1281 before. It's an interesting premise, a compelling read, and it's just wrapped up.

→ For a more adult read, try "Coming Back Late" by alchymie. Gritty and plot-driven.

→ "Harry Potter and the Discworld" by JK Pratchett is the first Discworld fanfiction I've been able to read without cringing. Against the odds, it's a crossover, AND it's good.

→ Finally, "Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë" by enembee is updating again. Once you get into it, it's thrilling, intriguing and charming by turns.


	24. Chapter 24 (I)

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 24 (~Intermission~)**

* * *

Jan, it transpired, would love for Harry to speak to Fred and George Weasley, and although she was surprised to hear he wanted it to be in private, she would wangle a discrete introduction the next day.

"They'll be troublesome, mind. If you'd accosted 'em in the hall, they'd think nothing of chatting the day away, but this way they won't but be mysterious in response. They're funny like that."

Harry nodded to her. "Thank you anyway."

However restless his current feelings, Harry wasn't enjoying her company – a week ago he would never have dreamed he'd know a person more exasperating than Buvolok back home, but now there was not only Jan but also Hermione and Blaise vying for the position in their own particular ways. He only had so much patience.

So the Ravenclaw boy gratefully took his leave of the Gryffindor girl, to walk through half-deserted halls to the muttering retreats of the Ravenclaw common room. There, Thursday afternoon stretched out into evening like a patient etherised upon a table, and Harry read three chapters in his Potions textbook before ascending the stairs.

Terry was sitting on the dormitory floor, sketching, and talking to Kevin of something called a 'Michelangelo'. Harry shrugged, tired and feeling fuzzy in the head. He slipped by Terry, made a sudden leap into bed, and found it so soft that he instantly fell asleep.

He dreamed he was nothing but a pair of ragged claws, scuttling across the Black Lake's floor. He lingered there in the chambers of the merpeople, beneath a wind that blew the water white and black, until human voices woke him, and he drowned.

Raised voices underwater resolved themselves into the sound of Terry and Kevin engaged in a tedious argument about a lost sock. Kevin was wearing the bottoms of his trousers rolled, exposing his ankles. Neither boy had a clue where the sock was, but it was obviously an important enough matter that Harry's first lie-in in years be cut short.

He rubbed sleep from his eyes, and Kevin turned toward the window, saying: "That is not it at all. That is not what I meant, at all."

"Good morning. Do I dare disturb the universe?" Harry interjected wryly. "If you are that low on socks, I can lend you some."

Both boys looked at him, and Terry bit off the matter with a smile. "No, it's fine. Soon breakfast time anyway."

Breakfast time, thought Harry. Surface food. "Ah. Time to face the cups, the marmalade, the tea. Yes? Yes."

* * *

"In 1768," Professor Binns began without preamble, "A number of events occurred; mm, or indeed, it has been argued, from a certain – and perhaps more rigorous – perspective, it was occurrences that eventuated. I speak first, if not _necessarily_ foremost, of the rise of broomstick magnate Archibald Huxley, who followed in his father's footsteps to..."

The overview of British wizarddom continued, extruded steadily in the form of a faint, constantly-checked yawn that was the professor's voice.

After a while, Harry tweaked at his morning coat, his collar mounting firmly to the chin, and tugged his (rich yet modest) school tie. That was better. Ten minutes into the day's classes and he had already been feeling stifled.

Binns' bleary, tortoise-like visage, faintly luminous in death, bobbed gently at the end of the room. The ghost continued to lecture, peering so closely at his notes that his ethereal nose almost grazed the parchment.

"- corroborate these claims. No, it was – as sources which, although not impeccable, were sufficiently numerous, reveal – the ideals of the younger Warlock which so dismayed the hermit Chadworth. We shall – time permitting, it would appear – return to this point later," the ghost breathed.

"Furthermore - the goblins, by all accounts, were unrelenting. Indeed, there followed in quick succession three skirmishes with goblin war parties from - what are generally understood to have been - originally Gallic fiefdoms, which were propagated..."

Harry had thought he knew only a little about the goblin-wizard conflicts at the cusp of the nineteenth century, but it seemed more than the Professor did. Or perhaps their textbook was to blame. He had read it almost in its entirety, and had encountered some of the same inaccuracies he was now hearing aired.

Predicting it would be the first of many times in this class, Harry raised his hand to dispute a point of fact.

"...infamy after being assassinated mid-way through his speech, which was cut short at the phrase '_S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse; a persona che mai tornasse al mondo_'. To blame was Glung the Lucky, he who slew the dragon Falkor, commonly regarded as..."

At no point did Binns look up. After a while, Harry put his hand down again.

"This was merely the first incursion that was – I submit – not merely caused but in fact, mm, _encouraged_ by Kondraki the Inconsiderate, the goblin heliographer whose notorious disregard for others' vassals, and feud-by-post with the so-called Witch-king of Zanzibar..."

The rest of the class, with the notable exception of Hermione Granger – and two Gryffindor boys scribbling on each others' books in the back row – had expressions that were completely glazed over. Some of them had sank down completely to rest their heads on their desks.

"...his son Krull the Circumspect, an eccentric of some renown in the goblin clans, who infamously – according to Augustus Clef Junior, a notable gentleman of the time – spent the larger part of his life travelling in wizarding boroughs, attempting to peddle 'unflattering opinions' for the price of two Knuts. The two met on the field of battle in February of that year, but Clef's advantage was lost through the underhanded use of a debilitating poison, with the result that..."

Harry _couldn't_ let this one go. He put his hand up and waved it slightly, and then, as the flow of words continued unstemmed, went as far as to cough slightly.

The spectre's head lifted, and he blinked dimly. The dry monologue coming to a stuttering halt.

"- supposedly to, to... ah. Mr, er..."

"Potter," Harry supplied. When he spoke, several class members jerked into wakefulness and glanced around in bewilderment.

"I believe you are mistaken, sir," Harry continued. "The Manager Krull was a renowned figure in Gringotts. He oversaw the construction of an entire level of vaults. The 'selling unflattering opinions' incident you mention sounds like someone's attempt at a joke. Er, how would you say... satire."

Professor Binns just stared blankly at him, so Harry pressed his advantage. He recalled something from the Scroll of Grudges – although the Oath meant he couldn't reveal that context. "According to Krull's own journal, the wizard Clef failed to show up to the duel. Clef just put about the false rumour that he had to retire early after some pretended misconduct. The two apparently had a long history, which you didn't mention."

The ghost's wrinkled brow furrowed further, his lecture notes falling to the desk in front of him. Withered, spectral lips delivered a crisp response.

"Augustus Clef Junior was a prodigious writer and a Warlock of the Wizengamot, and clearly recorded that his breakfast had been compromised with a 'most foul and blatant toxin', Mr Palmer. The text, mm, is furthermore quite clear on the anecdote about Krull's – I might say – vagabondish meanderings."

"I am aware of a wealth of documents disputing each of these suggestions," Harry said levelly.

"Mr Parker, these are historical _facts_," the ghost wheezed in annoyance. "They are not up for dispute! I could write for you a quite comprehensive _list_ of sources quoting Clef on this matter, and pointing to his indisputably elevated position in the peerage."

As he spoke, Binns floated closer to the blackboard and picked up a piece of chalk. It fell through his fingers twice, but he managed to scoop it up and juggle it about on the third try.

"Yes, sir." Harry tried to rephrase. "I was raising the point that regardless of who he was, the wizard appears to be unreliable on several counts, yes?"

"That will _do_, Mr Harkness. Please do not presuppose to know more than Bagshot, Aegis-Pennyworth, Blackridge, and – and least of all _me_ on this matter!"

Solid white blotches had appeared in Binns' cheeks, as if the teacher was becoming more corporeal in anger.

"Very well, sir. One more thing, though," Harry said brightly. "Just a small detail, but Krull was not the son of Kondraki. He was a cousin."

There was a brittle clatter as the chalk snapped in the ghost's fingers. "Piffle and, and – and enough from you! No more interruptions! Let us return to good, solid, _factual_ history. By the book, I say!"

There was a long pause as the professor glowered, waiting for Harry to speak, and then a longer one as he found his place in his sheaf of yellowed notes.

Then Binns began to speak again as if no interruption had occurred. Bit by bit, most of the class stopped throwing curious glances at Harry and settled back into inattention.

Time went by, curdling into history.

"...submit two feet of parchment on notable historical conflicts in the period 1750 to 1850, with particular regard to their _very real_ causes and consequences and the reputable scholars who have recorded them," the Professor concluded, gaze fixed firmly on his crumbling notes.

At this, Hermione waved her hand in the air and spoke excitedly. "When is it due, Professor?"

The ghost started slightly. "What was that, mm, Miss ...Gondor?"

"It's _Granger_, sir. I was asking when the essay is due."

The ghost appeared to look straight through her, then up at the ceiling, and finally down at his desk, apparently entertaining for the first time the radical notion of a deadline.

"The essay, Miss Ganges?" he said vaguely. "The essay. Mm... Thursday. Carry on." And with that, Binns drifted out.

* * *

"Did you get the homework topic?" Terry asked. "I tried to take notes, but I ended up with a list of three names, one date and a half-finished picture of Binns looking gobsmacked when you questioned him. I don't even remember when I fell asleep after that."

Harry shook his head, amused. "I have the topic."

Another voice spoke up from behind. "You shouldn't have given Professor Binns cheek, Harry! You were very lucky he didn't take points from Ravenclaw!"

"I would have told him I was in Hufflepuff, Hermione."

"What?"

"Oh, come now. Blind moles dig naught but the same old passages. You must have noticed he barely recognises his own name, yes? He probably doesn't even know how to, ah, 'take points'."

Seeing Hermione draw breath for a protracted response, Harry put on the pace up the stairs. Terry hurried after him.

When the Ravenclaws – many of them still yawning – reached the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, they found that neither Professor McGonagall nor the eyepatch'd Auror Carrington had made an appearance.

Instead, the lectern was occupied by a short, ancient wizard, slouched forward under the weight of his own bald head. He swayed slightly every time he breathed. It looked to Harry like Defence Against A Short Flight Of Stairs would be testing the limits of the man's capability.

"Good morning, and you must be first year Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, what? Do look lively, boys and girls. Please find your seats and settle down," the man added, catching Harry's eye through pince-nez spectacles and nodding towards an empty desk. "Now, are you quite sure we're all here? Good! I am Professor Tofty, and it is my good fortune to be teaching you Defence Against the Dark Arts this year."

* * *

Harry was pleased to revise his impression of the new teacher upwards in the next hour and a half. The man introduced himself as a 'Ministry proctor', holding masteries in Astronomy and History of Magic, and in possession of the top marks in his year in Defence Against the Dark Arts.

That year, whichever one it was, was clearly long past. But the lined and quavery Tofty was at least _enthusiastic_ about his subject, and soon proved himself rather more athletic than his shrivelled appearance would suggest. The professor's gnarled fingers handled a wand deftly, and his arms and legs moved a little shakily, but still with precision and economy of motion.

Tofty was teaching the basics of the offensive and defensive stances that many spells used, and it felt good to be able to move around during a lesson for once.

The Aurors stationed around the school would still be helping with the upper years, apparently, but Harry didn't feel like he was missing out. What did make him uneasy, at first, was the strange smell that now occupied the room.

It came as rather a surprise the first time Professor Tofty took out a little box of silver and horn, clicked it open, and excised a large pinch of some brownish powder. The whole class watched in fascination as this was taken in the web of skin between thumb and forefinger, delivered to a nostril, and snorted. When the teacher spoke again, the words were accompanied by a tiny plume of flakes, and the classroom's odour got stronger.

This behaviour was repeated intermittently. By the end of the period, the powder – _snuff_, somebody explained when they had formed ragged ranks to practise the basic shield stance – had settled across the floor like tunnel dust wherever Tofty had stepped. The strong-smelling stuff was making Harry's eyes water whenever the ancient wizard stood too close, and he was glad when Tofty dismissed them to lunch.

On the stairs, the students chattered about the class; all except Hermione, who took issue with Michael's disrespectful, if completely accurate, comparison of the improvement of Tofty over Binns. Harry marvelled at the way she had pitched her spear firmly on such unstable ground, and the other Ravenclaws argued fiercely until she left in what Terry described as 'a huff'.

"Huff, snuff," Harry rolled around in his mouth, pleased by the two new words.

* * *

Jan had followed Harry from Defence Against the Dark Arts to the Great Hall to eat, and once there, passed him a crumpled note that said only, 'Second floor, corridor B-17. First door after the statue of the Sphinx. Lunchtime.'

Harry ignored her angling for an invitation to the "jolly jaunt" – her words, of course – and set off. He knew only the basic ways around the bewildering castle. Fortunately, he had already explored parts of the second floor, and was stymied only briefly by a wrong turn. It led him to a long hallway that appeared to slope indefinitely downward, while in fact growing quickly steeper until it was almost vertical, and he was forced to turn back.

When Harry reached the strained-looking Sphinx statue, a stroke of mischief led him to pause and apply a glamour to his face. Tofty's visage was fresh in his mind as a model, but the goblin-charm was made for obscuring minor features or changing tones, not effecting massive differences. Still, it should do.

"Time to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet," he muttered, cracking his knuckles during the mystic shape-signing and trying to remember which of his instructors had said that.

When he opened the door, the distinctively copper-haired twins twins were hunched over a parchment, and immediately turned and spoke his name before he'd so much as opened his mouth.

"Nice face," one added, looking at him curiously.

"Really, little Harry Potterrrr," said the other, rolling the R, "Sorted into _Ravenclaw_? How boring!"

"Our little sister will be so disappointed when she hears," the first agreed, sitting on a desk and suddenly flinging a charm at Harry. Before he could react, the dart of magic hit his school tie, making it start to flash rapidly between bright pink and iridescent purple.

Harry narrowed his eyes at this behaviour.

He quickly dispelled the glamour – he obviously need to work on the mask again if it was so easily penetrated by a couple of third-year human students – then used _Magrakkus_ and several other goblin-charms to look at the spell on his tie.

"Hmmm."

Three threads of magic engendering colour; one of them knotted. Two more threads for binding, two nodes for modulation, and a mesh he didn't recognise. Then four layers of looped threads, which he guessed might cause the oscillation. Harry lifted the edge of the spell with his wand, unravelled it, and flung it back. The maimed charm sputtered out on the way, but the original red-haired perpetrator raised an eyebrow, impressed.

"Good one, little Harry. I'm George, by the way." He got up and engaged in a brief race against his brother to be the first to shake Harry's hand.

"I thought _I_ was George today," the loser said.

"Afraid not, old bean."

"Perhaps my luck will change tomorrow. So, Harry, maybe that crazy friend of yours was right about you, eh?"

"By the by," the other twin added, "and not that it's not nice to meet you, of course, but we have a date with that Strobing Spell and Filch's duffel coat, so what did you want?"

Resisting the urge to ask what Jan had said, Harry answered, "I wanted to visit the Forbidden Forest."

"Impossible," said one twin promptly.

"Can't be done," said the other.

...Which was _interesting_. Not an exaggeratedly boisterous query about why 'little Harry Potterrrr' wanted to go into the woods, but a flat rejection?

The Weasleys' eyes glittered at him in disconcerting synchrony.

What would their key be? "Mischief, madcappery and miscellaneous mayhem," the Prefect Pip's voice floated back to him.

"I can point you to a charm I read about which conjures invisible frogs," Harry said. "_en masse_."

"What time do you want to leave?" one twin asked.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

→ My apologies, of course, to the late, great, T. S. Eliot. Specifically, _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_, which I realise is something of an obscure reference to play with. It just expresses a sentiment I feel all too often at the moment.

→ Yes, another intermission chapter. My reasoning is that a smaller update every so often is better than a vast yawing gap between full chapters.

→ Anything at all to say? Leave a review! I love to hear from you people.


	25. Chapter 25 (I)

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 25 (~~Intermission~~)**

* * *

"And you're dead set on the Forbidden Forest?" asked the twin who had introduced himself as Fred. Plans were rapidly taking shape.

"He thinks big, this one," commented George. "But there's plenty of other interesting places to visit, you know, without having to go quite as far. Or get so muddy."

Harry wondered if the boys were nervous. He shrugged, and took a stab in the dark. "If I don't do this, I won't break _any_ rules in my first week."

"He's got us bang to rights," Fred sighed.

"Now we _have_ to help you," George agreed. He put one finger to his lip thoughtfully. "Of course, equally tantalising is this reference to a mysterious book which could help us in our quest to end the first-floor bathroom's lamentable lack of a plague of vermin. Haven't I always said a library is a wonderful resource, George?"

"I thought _you_ were George," Harry accused the speaker.

"I'm a Fred I'm afraid," came the immediate response.

Before things could devolve from there, Harry said, "Then corrupting the boring Ravenclaw Boy Who Lived to your wicked ways is a factor?"

The newly confirmed Fred looked at him curiously. "Isn't it always?"

"Well said, George," his twin chimed in.

Harry grimaced in resignation. He'd find the measure of them eventually.

"So, Saturday morning work for you?" one Weasley asked him, glancing down again at the large piece of parchment he was holding close to his robes.

* * *

"The goblins call it 'worm-glimmer'," Harry said, to faces lit by an orange flicker. "I believe it's the same as what older books call 'dweomerlight'."

Today's double Charms lesson had introduced the Finger Flames Cantrip, which followed naturally from conjuring sparks. The heatless, fuel-less wisps of fire which most of the Ravenclaw students had managed to create was a faint yellow: poor imitation of true flame. Hermione, though, had conjured an incredibly vivid blue fire in the palm of her hand. And Mandy Brocklehurst had dropped hers and stopped participating upon finding that her curlicues of flame were a particularly sickly red.

Harry was currently carrying gossamer tendrils of a deep, vibrant copper, bordering on orange. "It's one of those spells that can be specialised and, ah, even personalised as you master it," he explained to his friends as they walked idly. He shook his handful of copper flames so that they quivered like jelly. "The imposition of Will over Word and Wand, as Waffling puts it."

Harry had already been learning the spell, goblin-style, when Brother Filius had first appeared in Underfoot. He was therefore quite versed in it already.

"Really. Specialised in what manner?" Blaise asked, in his usual bored tone. He and Padma had caught up with Harry, Terry, Kevin and Hermione after their own classes. Now they were filling in time before dinner. Blaise had appeared a little exasperated to find the group discussing schoolwork out of class.

"There are many variants," Harry replied. "What they call 'The Hands That Burn', and 'The Lights That Dance'... many others, yes. As Professor Flitwick said, you can learn to make it fiercely hot, and create more or less light, and have it hover in the air, or stay lit underwater..." he shrugged. "One of the sorcerers I knew said that the colour is based on your personality. But the books claim that with practise you can create specific colours, too, so I don't know."

Harry let the strange little fire dribble out of his hand and onto the flagstones, where it dulled and then winked out. "Unusual to see a spell with a direct analogue in goblin magic," he mused. "I have to say, it's easier with a wand, even if it doesn't last as long."

"Well, of course it's easier with a wand," Hermione said with a frown. "Wandless magic isn't supposed-"

"No, you miss the point," Harry interrupted. "In my experience, goblin-charms – which are _call_ and _sign_ only, no wands – require greater _precision_, with a slower effect. The – 'pay-off', yes? – being that they can potentially last considerably longer, as they sustain themselves."

Harry paused, and looked at the faces of Blaise, Terry, Kevin, Padma, and Hermione, which varied along a spectrum from blank to thoughtful. "Watch my example."

He gave the incantation and the four requisite wand loops, each one describing a slightly flatter oval than the last. Flames spilled from his wand at the culmination.

But then he did it again and more sloppily, with the same results. A third time, deliberately twitching his wand, and the bright, coppery flames still appeared. It wasn't until he held his wand in his off-hand and slurred the words that it failed.

"That's wand magic. Now, _Inflammara_ is four syllables and has four gestures, yes? Well, here is a spell with the same length incantation and a similar somatic component."

Remembering his basic magic safety lessons, he cautioned his friends to keep behind him, and lined up on the stone wall.

"I shall show you Brother Hushmaster's Potent Asp-spray", he announced.

He made four passes through the air, ending with his thumbs locked together and fingers splayed, and said with exquisite care, "_Gertzlok-speltur_."

The spell failed. A fat spark crackled across his hands and there was a smell of mouldering vegetation.

"That should have shot snaking silver darts from my fingertips. I've managed it once or twice, in practise. I took every care just now, but I was still insufficiently _precise_, yes? I've seen experienced goblins perform that spell in a live hunt, on reflex, to bring down large prey."

"Wicked," Terry muttered.

"Now, compare to the worm-glimmer. I mean the Finger Flames Cantrip," Harry began.

Hermione, however, interrupted, in tones of mild scandal. "Harry, you _really_ oughtn't be doing that sort of magic. You could get in terrible trouble!"

Blaise made a rude noise. "I'm sure we'll see worse – probably before the year's out."

Hermione folded her arms. "Regardless, it's a more dangerous spell, so it's harder. Small wonder it didn't work. Besides, Adalbert Waffling says that wandless magic is _innately_ difficult. That's a far more likely explanation."

Harry was already shaking his head. "I'm not talking about doing wizard spells without a wand. I know of wandless spells for which there is no analogue in wizard magic. Some of those I can _do_."

He paused, frustrated, and tried again. "Here we have two spells, neither conceptually complex. One summons viscous, coloured, smokeless flames; the other flings corrosive snake-like ribbons. Incantations of the same length. Same number of basic movements. Now, Brother Hushmaster's hex is practically the first _instantaneous_ spell that a cautious sorcerer learns. But that seems to be the key: fast spells, more like those of wizards, are more difficult for goblin work. It requires considerably more, ah, finesse. "

"Oh _honestly_, Harry. Waffling's text says in the very first chapter that the Natural Hierarchy of Spellwork places spells in increasingly difficult magisteria: essential, wordless, wandless, motionless. It's based on the idea of the development of your magical core..."

Harry grimaced. "So the author agrees with two ideas that were asserted without support by a court mage a dozen centuries ago, because he was too lazy or incompetent to actually work out whether they were supported by evidence."

"You're impossible!" Hermione stormed towards the door, wheeled abruptly, said, "And I'm going to compile all the reasons you're wrong," and then stamped off.

Harry blinked.

"Good flounce," Blaise said appraisingly. "Rigid back. Nice heavy legwork. You did a good job causing that, Harry."

"There will be time to build and to create, and time for all the works and days of hands," Harry said vaguely.

"Which means?"

"Some challenging discussion may be good for her."

"You said the spell doesn't last as long when you're using a wand?" Padma had been paying keen attention to the details.

Harry nodded. "Goblin-charms are generative. Once you have the working right, it will usually continue for a long time. Not drawing magic from the air – I tested that – but from somewhere. Certainly not from your own person."

"Hey." This was Kevin, holding his hands cupped together. "So I've got an idea for the Charms Assignment."

Most of the class had been ordered to practise their Finger Flames Cantrip for class on Monday. Those - Harry and Kevin amongst them - who could conjure flames stable enough to blaze away by themselves on a level surface were to "find a new use for the charm or an aspect of the charm you wouldn't have guessed."

Quivering fire was already pooled in Kevin's hands. "What I'm thinking is... everybody pour their own fire spell into my hands, okay? And then I shake them up as hard as I can."

There was a long pause.

The others shared speculative looks, and then, as one, drew their wands.

* * *

"I didn't expect that to happen," Harry mused.

Blaise stopped finger-combing faintly luminous gunk out of his hair, and shot Harry a black look.

"No, really," Harry said, as he helped Terry up, leaving a sooty silhouette on the flagstones. "I know _different_ spells can sometimes react badly, yes. But the same charm? Hmmm. Perhaps because of the heterogeneous personal effects..."

Padma serenely patted out a small patch of heatless fire that was coruscating in merry violet and inky blue on her robes. "So what you are saying is, it was an aspect of the charm you wouldn't have guessed."

Terry sneezed, and looked up. "Right. I guess Kevin has something to write about, huh. Speaking of which... what do we do about him?"

They looked at Kevin.

"His hand is glowing," Padma observed.

"He's crackling, but not _much_," Blaise said, rather critically.

"I think it's static electricity," said Terry. "His hair's all standing on end, look. It's not just because he's upside down."

"I wouldn't have thought static alone would make him stick to the wall like that, though."

"We had better get Professor Flitwick," Harry decided.

* * *

Duly fetched, Filius beheld Kevin's flashing eyes and floating hair, and quickly wove a circle of magic around him thrice, snuffing out the glow. The teacher floated the boy to the ground, and turned a disapproving look upon the five students.

After a stern lecture about experimenting with magic, particularly in the corridors, they were let free. Kevin was bundled off to the Hospital Wing, but wandered into the Great Hall partway through dinner, soot still snarled in his hair. Apparently not a whit of harm to his person had been found or imagined by the school's zealous matron.

Dinner itself proved to be a quiet affair, featuring neither inopportune missives nor verminous malfeasance. Harry ate 'Yorkshire Pudding', whatever _that_ was, with gravy.

That evening, with a cry of "Hey, Potter!", Michael Corner waved Harry over to a table in, appropriately enough, the corner of the Ravenclaw common room.

Harry had so far found the blue-eyed boy, who was in the other dormitory room with Stephen and Anthony, to be argumentative and brusque.

"You know much about history? Goblin wars and things?"

Harry slowly sat. "Some, yes."

"Right. I was starting this history homework for Binns. Looking at the Clef-Kondraki Incident of 1678, because that has to be interesting, right?"

The tone suggested this was a joke. Harry shrugged.

"So anyway," Michael brandished his essay, "there's a bunch that the book glosses over, or that doesn't make much sense. Like, what's this bit about 'traversing the luminiferous aether'?"

"That's what they used to call Apparition," Harry said absently. "May I?" He took the parchment, and scanned down it. "That's correct. That too. That part sounds right, but I don't remember the specifics. I never heard this whole part about the stolen plough. You spelt 'succession' with two too many c's. And there's nothing here on the background to the incident."

"That's what I wanted to ask about."

Harry laced his fingers together. The details, first learned in some stone room in Underfoot Library, came back to him. "In essence: Clef Senior was opposed to the Brotherhood of Goblins controlling the, ah, 'coin of the realm'. His father had been a goldsmith, I believe. He feared insurrection, so he tried to sideline the goblins before it could actually begin."

Michael wrinkled his nose. "People _still_ worry about that, though. My father does, anyway. So why aren't they trying to drive the goblins out of Hogsmeade nowadays? I mean... I grew up knowing the goblins hold all the money, and never to cross them, and everyone has to walk on eggshells around 'em as they'll rebel at the drop of a hat."

Harry couldn't suppress his snort. "You're pureblood?"

Michael hesitated. "My dad's a wizard, my mom got to know him because her sister's a witch. Doesn't matter. But, no offence, why are the goblins trusted with all the wizarding world's wealth? This battle happened right outside Hogsmeade, and a bunch of local farmers got killed, and then a month later they were back to banking with the goblins and everything. Seems like Gringotts is this on-and-off hostile power with all its own laws and pretty much complete control over our economy."

"It's not quite as simple as you hew it out," Harry said, attempting to think of it at least partly from a wizard's perspective. "But mainly what you are seeing is the common, cultivated perception of goblins, overlaying a thousand years of concessions and conflicts and power plays. And, ah, the inertia of people's daily lives, yes? They bank at Gringotts because it is what they have done, and what their fathers have done before them."

Then he told the story of how Kondraki, wielding the ancestral warhammer _Nakbluhnak_, or That Which Fears No Anvil, shattered Clef's enchanted sword _Ribbledfwlch_, more commonly known to the Brotherhood as The Legendary Piece Of Scrap, so that the two halves fell into the muck of the fields and were lost to time. The goblin and his brother went on to slay five of the Younger Clef's men in pitched battle; Kondraki lost an ear and a sibling for his trouble, then escaped a trio of marshalls by breaking his Staff of Moths over his knee, releasing its remaining power in a legion of livid lepidoptera.

Harry's historical account meandered on through the razing of the barley fields, the accidental self-destruction of a local tavern (used to store pots of lime) by a mysterious war engine of the wizards, and a treacherous besom-maker's ill-fated attempt to stop the ratification of the peace treaty by using a Switching Spell on the official quill and a candle snuffer. He hadn't thought it terribly interesting, but before he was halfway done, he'd attracted a small crowd of first and second years.

Before it was time to turn in, Harry found time to go through the meticulous notes from his Potions text, working out a system for cross-referencing them with _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_. The latter book was so well-written and comprehensive that Harry had sometimes considered obtaining a spare copy.

In the corner, two older students had charmed themselves to speak backwards, and were singing a round. Nearby, a small cluster of boys had conjured mice in a bowl and were trying to make them fight. Mostly, though, people were making the air thick with idle conversation. Harry worked laboriously through an old mathematics textbook from his muggle collection, and drafted a letter home. Such was life in the Ravenclaw common room.

* * *

The morning sky was an undiluted overcast, the grounds bereft of the barest breeze, the grass and topiaries glistening with dew but completely still. It was as if whoever lathed the workpiece of the weather into its usual contours had submitted an untouched blank today.

Bogripple had warned Harry that forest trolls and other creatures dwelled deep in the woods. He therefore took his staff and knife when he joined Fred and George in slipping away before breakfast was over.

"It's about timing as much as route," one twin rambled as they ambled. Harry was performing hunting charms to dampen their scent. It wasn't easy to do while walking. "We two have an unfortunate tendency to look suspicious regardless of where we're going."

"The teachers are occupied with filling their plates now," the other twin chimed in, "but that doesn't mean you can't get caught. Have to avoid Hagrid, for one thing."

"So even though the gully near his house is out of sight of the castle, we won't take that way. There's a few other routes. That path skirting the Lake runs under the treeline for a while. But the best cover is the dolmen near the Hogsmeade road. The way the grounds curve means you're out of sight for a good stretch."

His brother kicked an empty bottle down the slope. "Which is why the seventh-years come here to drink."

"Probably not first thing on a Saturday morning, though."

"Unless they passed out the night before."

"Unless they passed out the night before," the other Weasley agreed, peering down the small hole made by a burrowing creature, as if a student might somehow be lodged there unconscious.

"In which case they'd be feeling a bit of a chill and not be inclined to chat."

"Can we hold for a few minutes?" Harry said asked.

"Sure." They paused in the shadow of the vast stone menhirs. It took a few minutes, but Harry managed to apply a glamour in a hazy but recognisable leaf pattern to their cloaks. The twins muttered to each other, with associated eyebrow wagglings, at the way he used his staff of white oak.

Standing at the treeline, the twin who might have been George spoke. "Well, if you're quite sure you don't want to gallavant somewhere else..."

"-and we know some really ripping spots for gallavanting," plausibly-Fred interrupted.

"...then let's get to it. The thing about the forest is," as they stepped under the quiet eaves, "it kind of has moods. There are warning signs when you're in trouble. The paths are mainly safe, and you can tell if you're straying too deep by the colour of the leaves."

"And the wind starts muttering if a creature starts approaching."

"...And George imagines voices on the winds, yeah. I agree that's a sign, but good manners forbids me from specifying what of."

After the necessary roughhousing this entailed, the third-years picked themselves up, brushed the leafmould off each other, and led the way once again.

As they walked, the trees closed in thicker and greyer, becoming sufficiently tunnel-like that Harry found himself wondering why he had heard neither the echoing hiss of rock wyrms nor the shrill, distant cry of their common predator, the scaly vole.

Almost as he said it, one of the twins muttered, "No birdsong." _Different worlds_, Harry thought.

His staff lit their way, the bipartite headpiece splitting the path in a pool of warm amber and opalescent green. Harry was enjoying the peaceful stillness and shadows, and before he knew it, he was singing softly.

"The path goes ever on and on, under rock and through plateau. By caves where never light has gone, past rivers to the Great Below. Up from the chasms in turmoil, past horrors in the halls of stone. Where slitherlings bask on mossy soil, we look on lights we long have known..."

The twins made a half-hearted attempt to follow the tune by whistling shrilly. They were marching close together, cloaks all a-flurry, and after a while Harry brushed a cobweb from his face and asked, "How often have you wandered around here?"

"Oh, a few times. More than we should have."

"We've a spell that points to the nearest magical buildup, which is always the school," said one twin, sounding less confident than he might have.

"And we wouldn't come at night, of course."

The redhead looked around. "It's _not_ that dangerous. You can hear any creatures coming a mile off, because of the wind."

At which point, something stepped out of the undergrowth and onto the trail ahead of them.

* * *

**Author's afterthoughts:**

→ A few people told me they preferred it when I did make note of the references I was making – which, to be clear, I really only do for the hell of it – because they often didn't spot them. It feels almost like spoiling the fun, but I'm too obscenely self-satisfied not to draw attention to my Tolkien Eliot SCP Discworld D&D Homestuck Coleridge DresdenCodak 8x reference combo in this intermission; booyeah. Also bonus points to anyone who spots my self-referential errata-based callback.

→ An average of 60 reviews per chapter seemed like an auspicious time to post this intermission. Seriously though, that's an amazing figure, and in fact quite hard for me to even grasp. You reviewers are wonderful and you should feel wonderful.


	26. Chapter 26 (I)

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 26 (~~~Intermission~~~)**

* * *

_At which point, something stepped out of the undergrowth and onto the trail ahead of them._

* * *

Harry lowered his longknife – and how stupid had it been to drop his staff in favour of the blade? – and stepped forward. The twins hadn't got as far as drawing their wands; they were staring.

The centaur who had appeared before them narrowed her eyes.

She was jet-black, dappled with grey, and held a pair of spears crooked in one muscular arm. Although clearly thrown like javelins by the centaur, Harry would have a hard time even lifting them both at once.

Harry gently shunted the twins aside and spoke his introduction in North Seelie. The sorcerers who had taught it to him had made it clear that this was not a language for common conversation. It was an old language, old as flint arrowheads and green ice; the air seemed crisper as he spoke.

"I whö am Harry greet yöu in the names ö∫ Gringötts and Under∫ööt, and beg grace tö wander in the ∫örest."

"I know who you are, Potter child." The voice was deep and commanding. The words were spoken in common English, which, in context, was an insult.

Then the centaur grudgingly added, "I whö am Salquess bid yöu welcöme to Fantaörne Förest, called the Wööd ö∫ Gillit'ie by the glass-eyed ∫ölk, ör in the töngue ö∫ greetings, Tulamh Nuh Gauithe Agös Scáuth, The Place ö∫ Wind and Shade. _A star scrutinises the minute of our meeting_."

She rolled her head upwards and snorted. "A small, unfortunate star. What are you three doing in the forest, dressed in the leaves' seeming? And in the throes of times such as these, when Dementors' breath and worse miasmas separate these auld eaves from wizards' paddocks? You ought know better, Potter of goblins, even if these twae know aught."

The centaur shifted in agitation, thumping the ground with the base of a spear.

There was clearly a problem, and Harry was beginning to realise it was this: Salquess was female. _Definitely_ female. Centaurs weren't generally in favour of clothing. And while Harry wasn't quite at an age where it mattered, he knew enough to realise that the twins were. Their eyes were ...fixated.

One of them whispered, "Blimey."

Centaur women were built to a larger scale than the males. They had to be, because childbirth was difficult for such creatures. The size difference was never so apparent as right now.

A little nervous, Harry bought some time by recovering his staff from the leaf-litter.

"Your clan is too far north for us to have known frequent contact," he said. "But I heard much of Boskfly, your Mistress Patterner, from my tutor in sorcery. She is known throughout the lands, and I would love to meet her."

Salquess' brows furrowed. "Her Immanence has passed into the stars, almost two years now."

"...Oh. Ah, and so has Bollotz," Harry said sadly.

"Your timing is singularly inauspicious, then. Our new Master Patterner is Windslough," the dark centaur added. "In truth, since the time of splintering none but our wrights and patterners have dealt with the goblinkin, although we well recall how by them many a gloaming golden hoard was shaped and wrought."

Salquess looked wistful. "The clan made trade for silver necklaces strung with flowering stars... crowns hung with dragon-fire. The skies tell dark fables of late, and perhaps if we would speak again to those who in twisted wire can mesh the light of moon and sun, they might shine some unexpected light for us."

Harry blinked at this, hoping he was understanding correctly. "It is time to forge new bonds, then?"

The lady of the wood thrust her spears tip-first into the ground, and folded her arms. "Perhaps. I think 'twould be best for all if you left, awaited better portents... and then returned _alone_," the centaur said pointedly. "Do you twae willow-malkins care to disagree?"

The twins shook their heads mutely.

"Then all..." Salquess broke off and stared upwards suddenly. Only the faintest cracks of rain-sodden grey were visible, but whatever she had sensed, it made her nostrils flare in alarm.

"By the pricking of my hooves! Something _mighty_ this way moves!"

Scant seconds later, the wind began to ruffle the branches overhead; branches which had before been so still they might have been carved from stone.

The centaur was already waving her arms for the three students to run when a flash of amber lit the trees nearby, as if something had appeared in a ball of intense flame.

And a voice boomed, "Harry Potter!"

* * *

They ran, Salquess herding them before her as her own legs ate up the ground at an easy lope. With every movement, Harry felt the dead weight of his staff tenderising his shoulder.

"_Hoof_ it, younglings!"

Harry's concentration was split between the forest trail and worrying at the nature of the sudden interruption. He was aware of a small dissonance: at the sound of the voice, Salquess had seemed to relax minutely before urging the three back along the path.

Minutes later, his legs were burning and he could hear the twins gasping for enough air to sustain their thickset bodies. But the trees were becoming more widely-spaced and less enshrouded in lichen, and eventually they broke through to the Autumnal sunlight at the edge of the forest.

Harry set his feet on the school's turf, and leaned heavily on a tree. Fred and George collapsed in a drift of leaves.

The centaur shifted skittishly in the undergrowth, then locked her gaze suddenly upon him. "Seek us öut at threshöld öf winter sölstice," she said in North Seelie, the words rolling like tussled tundra tussocks. "Be∫öre the dawn. 'tis a time ∫ated ∫ör sa∫ety and events ö∫ minör impört."

Harry gave a short bow. "I shall. Cönvey my regards tö yöur clan chie∫ and yöur Master Patterner." He hesitated. "Understand that I dö nöt speak with, ah, the ∫ull weight ö∫ the Brötherhööd..."

Salquess nodded abruptly. "Yes. Yet, there are wörds yöu shöuld hear, and likely möre tidings by then."

She turned a dark eye on Fred and George, who were looking a little overwhelmed. "And let me not see _you_ two again, or I shall bid each tree unfix his earth-bound root and hasten your departure."

The centaur turned abruptly and pushed back through the bushes, her dark silhouette instantly lost in the dappled depths of the forest. But already somebody else was rounding the corner of the dark eaves, walking briskly but not hurrying.

* * *

"Morning, sir!" said one of the interchangeable Weasleys, quickly scrambling up from the ground. His twin was still wheezing with exertion. "Er... having a pleasant stroll, then?"

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore ambulated to a halt and looked the three of them up and down. Harry became very aware of the mud on the trio's boots and the twigs in their hair.

"No, I cannot say that I am, Mister Weasley," the wizened figure said quietly. "It is altogether too early and too dreary a day. Where, may I ask, have the three of you been?"

A look passed between the brothers, who were both standing to attention now. One spoke, brightly. "Oh, we were just-"

Harry realised whose voice had called out earlier, and quickly interrupted. "In truth, we were in the forest, Professor." He ignored the thumping of his heart in his chest and met the Headmaster's eyes evenly.

There was a long pause before the wizard spoke. "Ah, the truth. A tempestuous beast, which we must often kept penned for safety's sake. But it is always refreshing to see it let out for a little exercise."

Dumbledore's face looked a little older and more worn, then. "I would hope, Mister Weasley and Mister Weasley, that you do not wish me to extrapolate from your behaviour this week to the year to come. I am quite disappointed that any of you would do something so foolhardy."

The whitebeard continued as the twins looked up and down and scuffed their feet. "The forest is perilous enough any day. But with Black and Lestrange, and the dementors that hound them..."

He looked away for a moment, staring at the dark forest. "Still, we are none of us as wise as we should be."

Harry squirmed for a few moments as the old wizard's gaze returned to scrutinise him. "I do feel for Mister Filch. His hours are perforce kept terribly late when he is required to oversee detentions on top of his normal duties. No... no, I think we shall not bother him so early in the year. However, there is a certain task which our groundskeeper and myself must perform every so often. It will go a little faster with some help. I will meet the three of you on Tuesday in the Entrance Hall at eight o'clock in the evening."

He looked at each of them in turn over the rims of his spectacles. "Take heed, now. I must warn you in the strongest terms against wandering off again."

There was a solemn pause, and then the weathered face broke into a bright smile. "But this does not mean that you should forget Hogwarts lesson number one: never not be having fun!"

And with that, Dumbledore was gone.

* * *

"I apologise," Harry said as the twins brushed each other off.

Possibly-George shrugged. "Mate, we couldn't have hoped to outfox Dumbledore." He glanced at probably-Fred. "Blimey, not even mom's that good at making you feel guilty."

A thought seemed to strike him and his brother both, identical worried expressions flashing across their faces.

One said, "Hope he doesn't write her. She'd pitch a fit if she knew!"

The other, "We won't be bothered by Filch, though, apparently. Wonder what that's about?"

Harry shrugged. "What is this 'detention', anyway? We get ...detained somewhere?"

The twins simultaneously cocked their heads to the side.

One laughed, "I'm sure you'll learn about it soon enough!"

The other, "But detention with Dumbledore, huh. Wonder what _that's_ going to be like. You probably shouldn't let it form your first impression of detention, Harry."

"Just wait till you get one with Snape," Fred shuddered.

Harry, acutely aware of his duty to complete the transaction, dug around in his pockets until he found a piece of paper. He passed it to George, who read aloud: "_Olm Decorating, Axolotl Bottling and C__aecilian __Party Favours: Variations on an Amphibian Theme. Melissa J. Fauxworthy. Charms section. Pages 233-240_. Oh! Thanks, Harry."

"Oh, you can have this too, if you want," Harry offered, taking out his rather crispy Exploding Snap deck. "Getting the three of us _detained_ wasn't in the deal. And, frankly, I'm tired of people playing with it next to my Transfiguration homework. I hate to think what could happen if Kevin got his hands on it."

Fred examined the cards with a discerning eye. "Hmmm. _Well_ now Harry, if you really don't want it, we'll reluctantly take it off your hands. Don't think you need to make amends for anything, though – I've no idea how the Headmaster found us so quickly."

"Perhaps due to the increased security after the Black and Lestrange escapes," Harry suggested, reflexively glancing around him.

There was a brief flurry of eyebrow signals between the twins, and then "Nope," said George as Fred stowed the pack of cards away. "We've ...technically... been off grounds already this week. I can't see Dumbledore being able to detect people who leave the grounds to go into the Forest, but not people who-"

His twin elbowed him in the ribs, and the boy clammed up.

Realising he wasn't going to get much more out of them, Harry shrugged and began to walk up the sloping lawn towards the track that led past the greenhouses and on to the castle. "Well, if we were going to get caught anyway, I'm just glad we ran into Salquess first. Yes? You know, centaurs aren't all dööm and glööm and lööm with hööves, even if it seems that way."

"She wasn't happy to see us," said George. "Still... brill. Absolutely no regrets there."

His brother said nothing, looking thoughtful. Both boys, Harry observed, were blushing faintly. The pink bloom spread across their cheeks in different patterns, making them easier to distinguish.

As the twins headed off, Harry trailed after them more slowly, thinking.

Dumbledore had known, somehow, that – and _where_ – he had gone. The twins had been in the forest before, apparently without incident. They had also been out of school grounds this very week.

So Dumbledore had either placed a tracking spell on Harry alone – or maybe it was possible that the school had wards which could trace Harry alone, that would have the same effect if it were possible – or Dumbledore was mysteriously able to _know_ where everyone was, but only _cared_ where Harry went. The first hypothesis was simpler, and therefore more likely.

Which meant ...what? This was good to know, but was it useful? Should Harry challenge the Headmaster on it? He felt rather indignant at having his movements tracked, but that didn't mean he couldn't see the sense in it, all things considered. Maybe he should talk to Brother Filius? He should at least write home.

Harry wished his brain would work faster and, well, better. _Surely_, with all of magic and science and goblin cunning, there was a way to improve that.

As his mind went off on a tangent, his feet led him into the Entrance Hall, and up a flight of steps to the first floor.

The first wide landing was made of stone polished by centuries of feet ringing out on it just as Harry's were. As he headed towards the next flight, he kept a wary eye on Draco Malfoy, who stood beside a tapestry, talking to a hulking older boy with a Slytherin tie. The latter was built like a pallet of bricks and had long hair. Some part of Harry's brain wondered if he'd been wrong in his assumption that the tendency for goblin hairstyles to be divided by gender lines extended to wizards as well.

Malfoy caught sight of him, blinked, and made some comment to the older boy, who took a few menacing steps forward.

Harry halted, right next to the second flight of stairs, and leaned on his staff.

"How opportune," Malfoy sneered. "Coppice and I were just discussing a wager about whether it would take _one_ month or _two_ for Lestrange to track you down and kill you."

The blonde boy stepped forward, into the shadows of the silently looming 'Coppice'. "You know, I saw you from the window earlier, Potter. Hanging about with Weasleys, really? Do your own classmates hate you so much that you have to sink to that level of friends?"

"You seem to be doing quite well with your own classmates," Harry retorted, gesturing to the older boy. "Did your father pay him to hang around with you?"

The senior's wand came up at this, but Malfoy was already walking forward, looking like he was fighting to keep a particularly ugly look off his face.

"My _real_, _living_, actual _wizard_ father doesn't have to pay people off for me, Potter! Nice staff, by the way. Can't afford a proper wand? Let's have a look."

Malfoy's delicate hands stretched out towards the length of white oak, which Harry swung up from the floor, sinking the butt into Malfoy's gut. He folded up with a quiet 'oomph', and sank to the ground.

The long-haired Coppice fired a dark blue spell that cut through the air with a noise like paper tearing, and Harry batted at it with his staff. The senior, seeing the swing intercept the indigo ray, dropped to the floor, but the spell was only disrupted, not returned at him. As he glanced down at the Slytherin – what was Terry's word? Oh yes, 'pillock' – gaping at him from the floor, Harry made a mental note to learn how to repel spells properly.

It was probably best to leave before the older boy tried something nasty. Harry took several steps up the broad staircase, moving at a diagonal so that he could watch for movement from Coppice.

"_Locomotor Wibbly_! Don't you dare ignore me, Potter!" Malfoy's voice, shrill with anger. Obviously Harry hadn't hit him hard enough.

There was a moment, as Harry's legs collapsed underneath him, where everything started moving slowly. _Seen that before_, he thought. _Adrenal flood, because I know I'm being attacked and I know my arm's not going to come up in time before I hit the stones, yes? Ye-_

There was blackness.

* * *

There was something scuttling around his temple. Cave roach?

He reached up to seize it, but couldn't move.

_Wand wood_, he identified after a while. Perhaps healing charms. Hospital wing?

Then the pain hit him. And as he tried to clutch at it, a voice said: "You're awake? Good. That was quite a crack to the head you took, Mr Potter."

"Naturally... _grtizerku_... thick-headed," he managed, cracking an eye open.

"How lucky for you," Madam Pomfrey said briskly. Her wand changed pattern, and the pain ebbed. "How are you feeling now? No stabbing pains or difficulty breathing?"

"Legs... still feel weak," Harry noted.

"Ah, so it was the Jelly-legs Jinx. I thought it might have been."

Yes - that made sense. The jinx was used as an exemplar for the second half of their defence textbook. Funny, Harry hadn't thought Malfoy the type to read ahead, or to be in any other way productive.

"Quite a weak one, so I wasn't sure whether it was just lingering spell residue," the matron continued, "and I didn't want to risk complications from applying the wrong countercurse. _Unjellyfy_," she intoned, causing a prickly sensation. "Please follow my finger with your eyes, Mr Potter."

He did so, as she waved it around. His brain was beginning to untreaclefy as he woke completely.

"Good. What is your full name, please?"

"Harry James. Potter. Uhh.. my staff?" he asked weakly.

Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips. "It is in Professor Flitwick's possession, and I'm far from certain it should be returned to you, Mr Potter. You'll need to see him to explain what happened anyway. Mr Barne said there was nobody around when he found you, but clearly you didn't just trip."

Harry ignored the obvious nonsense of the first half of this speech, nodded at the second, and asked, "What time is it?"

The matron gestured to the windows. "Almost noon. If you were out much longer, I would have become worried."

Oh yes, natural light. You could tell the time by that. Remarkable.

There was the sound of distant coughing, and the matron cautioned him to stay in bed before bustling away in that direction.

"Mm... thanks," Harry said to her retreating form. He found he had control of his arms, and checked himself carefully. There was a dull pain in his ribs – either he'd hit a few stairs the wrong way, or Malfoy had kicked him while he was out. He grinned, remembering how Bludfrang liked to do that when they clattered staves.

His fingers were itching for something to do, but he knew better than to risk a healer's wrath in her own domain. He spent a while trying to identify Coppice's blue spell – just a jinx, he thought, but he couldn't remember if it was the Tooth Loss one or the Toenail Curling one – before amusing himself by flicking through the notebooks in his belt pouch. There was still so much he had to do.

* * *

Later, the doors quietly opened and most of his friends trickled in. Padma had brought him some food in a napkin from lunch. So had Kevin, although his efforts had extended only to treacle tart, and by the time they had got themselves sorted out, there was more left making a papery mess on his fingers than Harry received.

"To be seen in the company of one Weasley may be regarded as misfortune," Blaise informed him primly, perching on a stool at the side of the bed. "To be seen in the company of _two_ seems like carelessness."

"Is it not customary to ask how I am?"

"I can _see_ that you'll be fine," Blaise said callously. "Madam Pomfrey wouldn't let us in to view a corpse."

"Blaise Zabini!" Hermione looked like she was going to hit him for a moment. Instead she turned back to Harry, and asked what had happened to him. He asked a question in response: What would happen if he reported someone?

"Detention, probably," Terry said. "Loss of House Points. Do you mean you were _pushed_?"

"No," Harry said, truthfully, idly deciding on a course of revenge.

"Then-"

Yes, that would be suitable. "You're rooming with Draco Malfoy, right, Theodore?"

The mousy boy glanced up, surprised. "Yeah... but I won't be soon, with any luck. Everyone in first year Slytherin's paired up but Blaise, so I've asked Snape if I can transfer to his room. Exchanging one insufferable prick for another. Why?"

Blaise rolled his eyes. "Maybe they'll save space and put Malfoy in with his goons. They probably snore."

Harry checked the Matron was elsewhere, then outlined to Theodore what he wanted and (roughly) what he needed it for. The boy nodded hesitantly, although he didn't look happy.

The others were giving him what Harry now recognised as 'incredulous' looks. Goblins would be showing considerably more teeth, and there would be nowhere near as much eyebrow business going on.

"Did you come up with all that within minutes of waking up? How come you're not in Slytherin?" Blaise asked. "Well, apart from the risk of having to room with someone other than me, of course."

Harry shrugged. "It's really just a variation of a normal goblin thing. I grew up all but instructed in the ways of canny and revenge, yes? I'm surprised that _you're_ surprised – the elders always despaired at how uncunning I was."

"Incredible."

"We'll watch the mail for a few days," Padma said, rubbing her ear distractedly. "And I can ask an older student to teach us the copying charm."

"If it's too difficult, the Weasleys should be able to," Harry said. "And we'll need them later, anyway."

Hermione, who had only been spluttering up until now, began to object strenuously. "Is this– did _Draco Malfoy_ push you over on the stairs? You've got to tell a professor, Harry, you can't just exact some kind of, of _retribution_ on him! That's against so many rules! You have to leave it to the teachers to sort it out!"

Before Harry could respond, Blaise was scowling at her. "I can't believe it! You're oppressing Harry's goblin-born right to deal with his affairs in the way appropriate to his culture! How insensitive can you be, Granger?" The effect was ruined when he turned to discretely wink at Harry.

"Are you accusing _me_ of ethnocentrism? I just-" Hermione threw her hands in the air and stormed out of the hospital wing. "Unbelievable. Completely unbelievable..."

"It's a wonder she's still got friends," Terry muttered, earning an elbow jab from Padma. "She'd better not snitch. This is going to be way too good."

"I'd better head off too," Theodore said. "I have matters to attend to, apparently."

Padma, watching him go, shook her head. "He's going to be in an awkward place, when his father hears he's aligned himself away from Malfoy."

"How so?" Harry asked, struggling to sit upright in the hospital bed.

Blaise interrupted. "It doesn't matter. He has to find his own way. Did you know, we had to talk to your Head of House to find out you'd been hurt? It's odd that we didn't hear Draco bragging about knocking you out - he was kind of quiet at lunch. Maybe he thinks he can still get on your good side?"

Padma snorted. "Like Harry might have got amnesia and forgot who was responsible?"

"Well, he _is_ Malfoy. He probably genuinely believes that the world re-sculpts itself to suit his demands..."

The rest of them left, still bickering.

* * *

**Author's tracts:**

→ Mad props to Gunnerkrigg Court Tolkien A Very Potter Musical Homestuck Macbeth Potter Puppet Pals Wilde and Earthsea yo.

→ Recently I find myself making the same expressions as those of the characters I write. This may be related to my continued successes in getting a seat to myself on the bus.


	27. Chapter 27 (I)

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 27 (~~~~Intermission~~~~)**

* * *

Inside a cheery office, two small figures made a tableau over a bulbous teapot. On its pottery sides, blue courtiers in blue robes bowed and fluttered blue fans against a background of spindly surface trees; the trees, too, were blue. The spout was a moustachioed dragon, which snorted forth steam every time the pot was lifted.

Filius Flitwick's face was wrinkled and atypically stern, and his hands were clasped in front of him as he spoke. "I've been informed that Mister Malfoy was to blame for your tumble."

_Hermione told, obviously_. Harry tried not to shift too obviously in his seat in front of the part-goblin Brother's desk.

"Well, Malfoy was _there_, but I didn't actually see who it was." Technically true.

Filius' fingers unclasped and beat a staccato tattoo against a teacup. "Hmm-_mmm_. Are you sure about that, Harry?"

Harry dropped his eyes to the intriguing enchanted trinkets that cluttered the Charms Professor's desk. He was rather torn. On the one hand, it wasn't a _serious_ matter – if it had been, he'd have gone along with the conflict resolution or trial by combat or exile or ear-taking or whatever measure the school used.

...But Malfoy The Younger certainly shouldn't be allowed to think he could get away with it.

...And Harry had been _trying_ to fit in, and do (wizard) things by the (wizard) book, but nothing had gone quite right, from the food to the language to the baffling ways in which people occupied themselves. The classes were slow (Transfiguration) or irritating (History) or vapid (Astronomy), the discussions with the centaurs he'd envisioned had not come to pass, there was nowhere to hunt...

...Harry was aware that he had already made up his mind, and he was rationalising. But he wanted to do something his way. He fully intended to deal with this.

He broke the long silence to Flitwick, feeling only a little bit guilty.

"Quite sure."

Filius gave him a level stare – with the professor on his high stool, their eyes were exactly matched – then rose and went to a large cabinet, unlocking it with a gesture to reveal a square of absolute darkness, a curious blank patch in the world. A murmured incantation, and the diminutive professor drew forth from that emptiness Harry's staff of oak and rowan.

Harry took it from the slightly frowning Flitwick, and felt the usual indefinable rush of power, now dulled by familiarity into a tiny warm sensation. "Thank you."

"You're quite welcome, Harry," Filius squeaked, closing the cabinet again. Unspoken words hung heavy in the air between them – but that was always the case, when you were in the Brotherhood of Goblins. "And if there's anything you want to tell me, drop in any time."

* * *

On Saturday evenings, conversation in the Ravenclaw common room was the muted roar of a distant waterfall. It washed over Harry as he worked on his Charms homework.

_The Standard Book of Spells, Grade One_ lay open on the table, at the pages that illustrated for a few seconds the casting of the Finger Flames Cantrip. Someone's wand flicked over and over again in the grainy photograph, with exactly the same result with each loop of the ink.

Kevin, sitting opposite him, hummed – a series of discordant notes which flirted continually with an actual tune, melting the sealing-wax (as it were) but never quite sealing the deal. The sandy blonde boy was thumbing idly through what had happened to be the only book within reach.

Over the centuries, the Ravenclaws had acquired a motley assortment of books, which graced the various window ledges of the common room, were stacked on the fire's mantle, had been shoved down the sides of armchairs, propped up the legs of wobbly tables, and in some very rare cases even sat on the bookshelves.

The eclectic collection was occasionally topped up with the shiny-covered sort of thing that people bequeathed their old school House, but was mainly composed of the type of unimportant books which could be left lying around and forgotten about. This baseline was filtered further by the tendency of students to make off with the interesting ones and either forget or 'forget' to return them, and the result was a small, communal library that could be divided into three categories.

Most prominent were the ubiquitous school books – the previous-edition textbooks and a past Head Boy's bound handwritten notes, the charms dictionary and the broomstick manual and the other volumes for burgeoning scholars which were never left alone for long enough to disappear.

Then there were a few books that stuck around for other reasons – the Ravenclaw Biography that was chained in its shrine-like wall sconce, the complete set of illuminated Latin encyclopedias that were so densely warded against theft that at night they really _were_ illuminated, and the Venomous Book of Venomous Insects, which could give as good as it got and seldom came down from the ceiling anyway.

And finally there were the weird and dull books – the foreign language spellbooks, the annals of history's most boring events, the grimoires brimming with rambling conjecture from ageing theorists who thought themselves misunderstood geniuses, the novels with half their pages missing, the tomes of outdated potions and disputed magical facts. They formed a layer around the room like leaf dross on a forest floor.

Kevin had picked up _Evolution of the Modern Writing-Desk: Additional Notes_, which was practically the archetypal Category Three.

"The modern Cheveret desk is only a slight variation on the original furnishings of the extensive arcane section of the Library of Alexandria," he read aloud, as Harry's hand yet again mirrored the wand movements of the illustration in the Charms text. "Huh. I never knew that."

Where the photograph achieved the exact same results with every repetition, Harry's own spell had varied. This particular time, he dovetailed the final loop of the wand into the initial loop, and then again, repeating the spell three times.

Loop one; the completion of the spell.

Loop two; no effect.

Loop three; the gelatinous fire he had conjured crept across the table until it had doubled in size.

Harry blinked, and thumbed through the textbook. The coppery flames flickered and slowly died away as he read. Yes, the charm could be repeated, to create a more complex effect. And there were variations listed, but nothing about the fundamental rate at which the basic spell produced flame.

"Apparently, a wizard in Devonshire once charmed a credenza to light the candles when he entered the room, as well as sort his correspondence, trim his bunions, keep the tea caddy full, and massage his neck," Kevin said. "He took the secret of how he'd done it to the grave after the house fire and the rampage and the accidental vampirism. D'you suppose that's a common sort of occurrence?"

"As I do not know what a credenza is, I could not possibly comment," Harry said. He cast the charm four times in succession, and squinted at the puddle of quivering flames from various angles before it evaporated. That had looked roughly three times the size of his original patch of fire.

He then tried two chained castings, being extremely careful with the movements. The first repetition still had no effect at all on the charm.

"Metamorphic library steps have been independently invented by muggle artificers in the late Eighteenth Century, using ingenious moving parts in place of enchantment – a rare example of magical/mundane convergent evolution in furniture," Kevin read aloud. "However, the muggle set that the authors were fortunate enough to acquire did not follow at the owner's heels. We were unable to ascertain whether this was a defective item, or whether that ability lies only within the domain of magic."

Harry tried six castings, back to back, but fumbled the last one. He tried again and was successful, and unless he was misremembering, that was rather _more_ than a fivefold increase over the original.

"Maybe I'm just getting better," he said dubiously, instinctively ducking away from a folded parchment flying device that someone on the other side of the room had sent aloft.

"Enough to make a big difference in the last ten minutes?"

Harry blinked. He hadn't realised Kevin was paying attention; the boy was still buried in the book. "Well – no, almost certainly not. Maybe if I had been learning the spell, but this was just practise."

"Hmm. The Bargueño desk," Kevin noted, "was the original portable clerk's workshop for lettered individuals in times when literacy was rare. The basic model has remained pervasive. Notably, Warlock Howl of Lancashire owned an early Escritoire which folded into a wallet and bound scrolls automatically; this set a trend that has only been very recently replaced with the modern spread of the envelope-dispensing Wooton desk."

Harry nodded along as he drew a grid upon a piece of parchment.

It took some time, and he had to repeat each attempt several times and take the average – there was noticeable spread between his attempts, it wasn't just inaccurate measurement – but he eventually had a sequence of numbers. They represented the area the flames covered after a single repetition of the charm, then two, three, and so on.

"_1.6, 1.8, 3.5, 5.3, 8.7, 13.6, 22.7, 36.1_," he read aloud.

Kevin peered over and scratched his head. "They're not doubling, right?"

"No."

"Maybe they're meant to be, though. Maybe you haven't got the magic quite right yet."

Harry snorted, looked back down at the numbers, drew a line under them, bit his lip for luck, and divided them all by 1.6.

"So... _1.0, 1.1, 2.2, 3.3, 5.4, 8.5, 14.2, 22.6_."

"Not too helpful."

"No."

He drew it out on a chart, and looked at the line, which formed a relatively smooth curve. Exponential, yes? His books had some interesting things to say about those progressions. For a start, it meant that someone with sufficient time on their hands could suffocate the entire planet in cheerfully quivering flames, unless there was a hard constraint somewhere.

Kevin stopped his discordant whistling to speak up again. "The typical tambour desk is considerably more compact than a butler's desk or spinet desk, and has shutters that are typically charmed with increasing levels of security from left to right, to store documents of differing levels of sensitivity and required ease of access."

The flames filled a _volume_ rather than an _area_. Maybe the third dimension was confounding things. Harry set to with one of the chipped, ink-stained wooden rulers that served as frequent bookmarks and infrequent weapons in the Ravenclaw common room. The height of the flickering flames didn't seem to change much at all, though, or if it did, he couldn't measure it. He disregarded that idea for now. Anyway...

The evening drifted on into mumbled conjecture and measurements and wandwork, until Terry sat down next to Kevin and the two of them drew him into an absurd conversation about whether there was any truth in the floating rumours that something had eaten Professor Kettleburn's remaining leg, and if so, whether a yeti or a bunyip was the more likely culprit.

* * *

The _weekend_, Harry reflected, pouring himself half a goblet of juice and diluting it from the water jug. Another jarring little thing. In the human wizarding world, everyone had their day of rest at the same time – except it was _two_ days. That seemed highly suspicious. But perhaps it was a school thing; or perhaps they included some errands in their weekend that goblins might have considered part of a normal day's work.

Students trickled in, even later than usual: the Hall was only a quarter full by the time the mail delivery was due to begin. Kevin plunked himself down next to Harry, dark sleepless patches under his eyes. As yet, strings of nonsensical syllables were all Harry had heard his dorm-mate utter in the mornings before spending ten minutes all but immersed in coffee. The other students seemed to prefer tea or the ever-present pumpkin juice.

Harry gave up on Kevin and turned to one of the first mail owls as it fluttered down. He recognised the bird by its coppery plumage as a Gringotts staff owl; the perfectly round golden eyes confirmed it.

A lot of that kind of specialisation went on, he knew. Gringotts had dedicated owlcotes and keepers dedicated to breeding the traits true. They maintained some entire lines for extremely high-paying clients, who wanted a particular temperament or eye colour, or more commonly a prestigious wingspan, in their mailbirds. Something more permanent than a charm or transfiguration.

The Gringotts keepers had also been trying, with as yet limited success, to have a perfect silver 'G' appear on their own birds. The owl that was now regarding him balefully, for example, had a splotch like a crescent moon across its breast, but the mark wasn't the right colour.

Harry took the letter delicately, noting the owl was waiting for a response. He flicked it open with a blunt tableknife, but then Kevin had risen from the dead to nudge him and nod towards the Slytherin table.

Draco Malfoy was receiving a package, delivered by a jet-black eagle owl. One of the boy's hulking bookends and a Slytherin girl were interested – it looked like it could be food of some sort.

Harry, noting that Blaise was seated and watching closely, looked back down at his own missives.

"Squiggle, squiggle, square spiral, squiggle, concentric rings, stylised dagger, squiggle, backwards capital R," Kevin read over his shoulder. "It's gibberish to me."

"Gobbledegook," Harry corrected. "From Sibilig – my foster parent." He paused in his perusal of the note as the owl shifted restlessly. He picked the other letter – this one in excruciatingly formal English – out of the envelope, skimmed it, signed it, and sent it off.

"And that?" Kevin asked curiously.

"Just some business. Though I have little doubt that I will grow to love Blaise like a brother," Harry said dryly, "it would not do for me to actually legally become his brother."

The other boy didn't seem to know what to make of this, and Harry turned his attention back to the note. He read that the Lestrange vault had been sealed pending inquiry. An almost unprecedented action, but then, so was the Dark Witch's attack on Gringotts.

Hearing Harry's noise of interest, Kevin leaned over, again trying to decipher the Gobbledegook.

"Bank business," Harry said. "I cannot really discuss it."

Which led to a discussion with the muggleborn boy, over pancakes, of goblin banking.

There was some mutual misunderstanding until some nomenclature had been cleared up. _Accounts_, as opposed to _vaults_, were a relatively new innovation in magical Britain, and one that hadn't really caught on. Accounts paid annual interest – Kevin had seemed very surprised how little – and were not represented by an actual cavern in the ground you could go and visit. That was a concept which made a lot of wizards wary. The feeling was that removing the big enclosed space with the solid metal door from the equation was dangerously untraditional.

Gringotts didn't have much of a market in loans, either, especially to people who lacked a vault to begin with, because they had limited standing to enforce payment outside the bank. And they didn't trust the Ministry to cooperate.

Besides, what wizards really wanted was somewhere to store magical objects: things to be regarded as priceless heirlooms during the good times, or to be pawned off or sold when ends weren't quite meeting. They wanted to store away dirty family secrets, and things they didn't want their Ministry to know about.

And if they declared bankruptcy, it was certainly no business of Gringotts what was still in their vaults. The Ministry would have to _invade_ to check, and interestingly, there was no stipulation that Gringotts had to care. It could all be very mutually beneficial.

The bank, officially at least, had no idea what was inside a client's vault. An account had _records_. It was nothing _but_ records. Of course, Gringotts offered the option of a magical tally-book that bypassed the protections to keep record of vault contents, for a certain fee. Or for a certain other fee, allowed clients to do it themselves, if they had the resources to create an artefact like that.

Oh yes, there were branches and offices and lawyers for investment and contracts and writs and taxes, of course, but they were very much on the periphery of the business. What the ancient institution had always been about was charging customers to put their gold in a big, safe, hole in the ground.

Some of this – the more acceptable parts – Harry tried to convey to a fascinated Kevin over blueberry pancakes and tiny sausages and pulpy, too-sweet pumpkin juice.

And then _after_ breakfast came the football.

* * *

Sunday was apparently something of a day of worship to certain students, and the manner of said worship had been described to Harry as "pick-up footer".

This was the three-way brainchild of Dean Thomas and Wayne Hopkins and Wayne's older cousin Leander, who was in charge by virtue of actually having a ball. After a lot of initial confusion about the rules, and then some later confusion from a few purebloods in Hufflepuff about why the ball was light and not floating, and then some _further_ confusion about where and what the goals were, the game was under way.

In the end the teams consisted of Basically All Of First Year Hufflepuff facing off against The Rest, because that was easiest, and the Badgers wore their school ties around their upper arms or foreheads, which helped, at least a little.

Terry and Seamus and Leander's friend Ainsley, who had some notion of the rules, formed a second line of defence behind Leander and Kevin and Dean, who were old hands at the game. Harry and Stephen Cornfoot, who didn't seem to like him much, got stuck in goal, with very little concept of what they were meant to be doing. Jan had no more idea, but that had absolutely no effect on her being in the thick of things.

Nine against eleven _might_ have been reasonably matched, with the two older boys on their side, but without a referee and with more than half the players being entirely new to the game, it was hard to tell.

The opposing team was full of pep and vim and eagerness, and six of them were girls and as such eye-wateringly vicious about where they placed a knee or elbow. Fifteen minutes in, Ainsley was sporting a bloodied nose, Neville had been tripped by his own team-mates twice, nobody was daring to intercept Artemis Roper on account of her steel-toed boots, and Stephen Cornfoot had accidentally – but spectacularly – used his face to block an attempt on goal.

Of all of the Hufflepuff class, only tiny Sally-Anne Perks had stayed out of the game. She waited dourly on the edge of the lawn in an oversized jacket, looking as if she were solely responsible for upholding the moral standing of the school.

Harry didn't understand a single one of the instructions Dean and Kevin kept shouting, and only got to kick the ball once. But it was reasonably fun all the same, and by the time his new archnemesis – rain – cut the game short, Harry was glad he'd had the opportunity to work off some energy.

The experts from the teams put their heads together and declared it a draw by way of five fouls to three own goals, and they all trooped inside, comparing scrapes and bruises. Pip the Prefect ordered them to a halt and hit each player with a cleaning charm, then sighed in resignation at the mud they'd tracked all over the Entrance Hall, telling them to 'scarper' before Filch found out.

* * *

Scarper they did, and the advisability of extending the game inside the corridors was discussed but eventually dismissed, so the intrepid players drifted off to talk or visit the lavatory or explore the school.

After lunch, it was 'library time'. Harry met up with Hermione and Terry and Kevin and the quiet but determinedly studious Lisa Turpin, who Harry didn't really know. Blaise and Theodore had shown up, but both disappeared in boredom, something that beggared belief amidst the five Ravenclaws. And maybe it was the House that was the cause of this difference in keenness, but it didn't escape Harry's notice that his companions – well, he didn't know about Lisa – were entirely new to the world of magic.

Later in the afternoon, when Kevin pronounced himself unable to keep his eyes open any longer and Terry's parchment doodlings had strayed dangerously close to the open textbook, they left, bundling Harry out with them. Hermione and Lisa stayed longer, working on their Charms homework.

As they walked, the trio were discussing magic; specifically, how exactly one went about becoming as great a wizard as Dumbledore, who they had seen leaving the library with a stack of books floating after him. Kevin was wondering whether simple practise could be enough, Terry remained an obtuse proponent of 'long wizardly beards', and Harry was trying to work back to the original question of how they could distinguish _breadth of knowledge_ from _versatility of spells_ and _mastery of lesser-known secrets_.

"But if we take you as an example - it's just that you know all this magic that I haven't even read about, and it's not just that you got a head start because you started earlier _holy hell_," Terry said, leaping out of the way. A small barrel clattered down the staircase ahead of them, breaking open against the stone wall and spilling small, vinegar-smelling fish everywhere.

Peeves cascaded down after it, holding another barrel under his arm, and they ran.

When the short detour ended with the poltergeist's cackles echoing in the distance, they paused in an urn-studded antechamber, where Terry slumped panting against the wall.

Harry examined a stone urn, picking at the thread of conversation.

"Sure, I know a lot of magic. But not wizard magic, yes?"

"Yes? Wizard magic?"

"Yes. Spell, light, poof."

"Poof," Kevin agreed solemnly.

"Goblin-work... There is a difference there. Perhaps not a fundamental one, but an important one. A difference in approach, yes? To the wizard, it seems it is of little use if the magic isn't quick and flashy, if it builds up of its own accord. But..." Harry cast around and saw an old door – oak, with rusted iron studs. Definitely due to be replaced. He slapped the dinged-up surface. "How long would it take you to break this down?"

Terry and Kevin regarded it. "Without my dad's power tools? I wouldn't know where to begin."

"Well, even if you had studied a blasting curse, it might still take you hours. You don't have the, ah, firepower to do it with wizard spells. I might not either. Whereas..."

Harry brought his wand up and began to trace the surface of the door, mouthing the spiky syllables of Gheed's Composting Accelerator, being very careful to click his teeth in exactly the right manner after each triptych.

A faint blue glow, composed from a pattern of hundreds of beads of light, appeared on the door's surface. The mandala hung there for a second and then sunk into the wood.

"Observe," said Harry.

"...Not a lot?" opined Terry hesitantly, after a few moments.

"It takes a while. The spell is being fuelled by ambient magic, you see. Little drops in a bucket, all adding up, and nothing to do with me. My work was just the bucket."

Over the next minute, a perfectly circle patch of wood in the door became flaky and discoloured, and the air in the antechamber was filled with a mouldering smell.

"Cool?" said Kevin, also uncertain.

After another minute, when the first splinter of rotten wood dropped away of its own accord, Harry proved his point by elbowing the door.

Once, and the punky wood deformed; twice, and it caved inwards, the head-sized hole revealing a long, dark corridor beyond. Terry gave a muffled squeak behind him.

"You see my point, then," Harry said, and then turned slowly when he received no answer.

Professor Snape loomed there, with his hands gripping the other boys' shoulders. "_Potter_," he breathed.

An iron stud dropped to the floor with a loud clatter in the silence.

* * *

Harry observed Professor Snape carefully as the man stalked back and forth, ranting about expulsion.

His agitation was almost absurdly over the top, yet clearly very real. The teacher was practically foaming at the mouth. It struck Harry as unprofessional. Bordering on – well – unhinged.

He quickly cleared his mind of door puns; now would not be the time to break into an inadvertent grin.

Their Head of House watched gravely from behind his desk. The teapot had been put away for this.

"Senseless destruction... wanton disregard... school property... well beyond simple repair... arrogance... third-floor corridor!"

Oh, yes, apparently it had been the door of the forbidden corridor that Harry had by chance singled out.

Snape had built up a good head of steam. It remained to be seen whether his pressure valve would handle it or if there would be some type of explosion in the firebox. ...Harry had checked his reference books about steam engines after the trip to Hogwarts. Was it the mild terror that was driving his mind to these constructions now?

Regardless. The Potions master was in a rage, certainly. But Snape hadn't been truly incensed until Flitwick had disregarded the calls for expulsion in favour of asking with excitement exactly how the destruction had been accomplished.

Kevin and Terry sat to the side of the room, clearly content to be overlooked.

Harry tried to explain about their discussion of magic. He attempted to spell out what the point of the object lesson was. He pointed out that he intended to make a new door from the beginning, obviously.

"You'll _make_ a new one?" Snape had stopped looking at him like gunk on the bottom of a cauldron, and started looking as if said gunk had grown arms and demanded a living wage.

Flitwick interrupted the ensuing rant to agree that it was, in fact, policy to have the culprit's caregivers pay to replace the school property, rather than have them construct a new one from raw materials.

* * *

"Six hours of detention isn't that bad," Terry commiserated back in the common room, eyes flickering at Harry's expression. "That'll only be two or three nights."

"What? Oh. No, I'm just... annoyed that I still don't really know how things work around here."

And, Harry had to admit, he had been looking forward to restoring the door. He hadn't thought that part completely through, though – he didn't know where the school kept its timber, or even if there was a proper joiner's workshop somewhere in the vast labyrinthine edifice of granite. At this rate, he was going to get out of practise, and he had earned even more detention which he didn't dare to hope he'd be doing something constructive in.

The trio had lost twenty points each, too, which was somewhat galling.

"Funny that it was Snape who found us," Kevin said. "Given he didn't seem to like you from the beginning."

Terry leaned in conspiratorially over his Charms assignment. "What was he doing there, anyway? _Guarding_ whatever is so dangerous that it's locked up in there?"

Harry shrugged. "Not enough data points. We could ask an older student whether parts of the school often get quarantined like that."

"Yeah..." Kevin chewed on the end of his quill, critically observing one of the characteristically noisy and pointless wizard games being played in the common room that evening. It wasn't the one with the combusting cards _or_ the one with the squirting, foul-smelling stones _or_ the one where you threw coins in the air and tried to stop them coming down again. Instead, a pair of sixth-years were playing 'Wizard Chess', and Harry didn't even have to come from a mundane-human background like Kevin to know how absurd that name was.

The mess of copper-coloured fire from Harry's Finger Flames Charm wobbled gently on the grid paper. He carefully added one more loop and measured the result. Finding that the fire was amenable to being pushed around a bit with the end of a pencil had helped, and now he had some solid data.

His new sequence of measurements, averaged over the trials of three hours' work, was:

_1.69, 1.74, 3.44, 5.22, 8.54, 13.60, 22.55, 36.21, 58.48_

The first two numbers looked very similar. Harry split the difference and divided the series by the result to normalise the values, feeling a slowly-growing sense of success as he wrote down:

_0.99, 1.02, 2.01, 3.05, 4.99, 7.95, 13.19, 21.2, 34.20_

And _that_ was surely an approximation of...

"_1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34_," Terry read aloud. "Did you crack it?"

"I think so," Harry grinned up at him, exulting in his personal victory over the world of magic.

That – _that_ was the start of a tantalisingly familiar series of numbers – he hadn't read about it all that long ago, and recalled the thrill when he went out into the caverns several years ago and tested it on things the muggle human author couldn't have known about, and found that it _worked_.

The name for it was on the tip of his tongue, but it took an infuriating quarter-hour dive into his dog-eared mathematics and natural science books until he found it.

"The Fibonacci Sequence," he breathed.

* * *

**Author's ruminations:**

→ Bluhhh, so little time to write! I'm somewhat embarrassed, and I do apologise. This would have been out eight weeks ago except I was having trouble with one part of it, and then six weeks ago except my job got busy, and then four weeks ago except I moved house, and then two weeks ago except suddenly I had deadlines for my work-related writing.

→ If you're still reading, then: Thanks. And maybe this would be a good time for a re-read if you've contemplated one. The pace should pick up fairly soon.

→ Today's Harry Potter fanfiction recommendation is _The Shoebox Project_, a lengthy but incomplete textual and visual narrative that you can find at (url) **shoebox dot lomara dot org**. It's consistently hilarious, has literature-quality writing, and is full of what I would characterise as 'the feels'. You will definitely laugh and you might cry a little. OTOH, YMMV. Apart from that, I would suggest _An Unfound Door_, by the famous joe6991 on this website, and for sheer magic outside the world of Potterfic, you can't look beyond _Ra_ at (url) **qtnm dot org**.


	28. Chapter 28 (OMAKE)

_**Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone**_

**Chapter 28 (Omake)**

* * *

**Hopefully that protracted intermission will be over; I seem to be writing more frequently now. That said, the next real chapter is still under construction. In the meantime, please enjoy this omake, i.e. an alternative universe to my alternative universe to JKR's alternative universe.**

Today we are getting a glimpse of _Harry Amidst The Trolls Of Bone_, courtesy of several idle hours of mutually beneficial collaboration between myself and a bottle of ginger wine.

* * *

_Him who mountain crush him no_

_Him who sun him stop him no_

_Him who hammer him break him no_

_Him who fire him fear him no_

_Him who mark him scar above him eye_

_Him potter_

- Troll prophecy *

* * *

_In the year 1991 He will come, and where His tread falls the land shall never smell the same;_

_And He will feast upon the spiders of the forest;_

_And He will declare unto the spotty child of Mercury that yea, the spiders tasteth good, you should try them;_

_And the child shall say: no, nope, no;_

_And it shall come to pass that our Tribe will flee before Him, for He discriminateth not in his Hunger._

- Centaur prophecy

* * *

**Chapter One: The Boy Who Lived**

Glurg Son Of Glurg, of cave number four, Place Of Bones, was proud to say that he had once stolen a baby circus elephant, devoured it messily, and made its skull into a hat, thank you very much.

He probably wouldn't put it like that, of course; Glurg had a vocabulary of slightly less than a thousand words even on days when he _wasn't_ smashed out of his ugly gourd on fermented badger carcasses.

Today was not one of those days.

Glurg was a ten-foot-tall mountain troll with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large moustache, which was home to strata of spoiled food and various scampering vermin. His skin was mottled purple-grey due to some river troll ancestry he didn't like to talk about. He was twice as horrible-looking as he was stupid, and twice again as foul-smelling.

Glurg was the last person you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious in a muggle neighbourhood, because – well, because he was a troll, obviously. Glurg was the tool-carver of a group of trolls called Bone Clan. The chief purpose of Bone Clan, though it had never been articulated, was to make more trolls.

Part of the process of making more trolls was keeping existing trolls alive, and that meant weapons, and that meant tools for weapon making, and that meant tool carving. Glurg was good at his job, and was grudgingly respected amongst the other trolls in the clan, despite the fact that he was a bit short and purple and, frankly, clever.

Trolls didn't like clever. _Cunning_ they could get behind, as long as it was a crude and nasty sort of cunning, but _clever_ was a disease of smaller bipeds.

Clever ones were sometimes useful, though; they could do canny things with bone and wood and flint – as Glurg did – and could be sent out into the World when something was needed – as Glurg had been. Those chosen for the task of entering the World of humans were known to trolls as Daylight Faces, and they were both pitied and admired.

Glurg's current quest – the one that had led him to this muggle dwelling – was to find a clay-shaper. The tribe's last clay-shaper, the brutish Gorcus, had died of wolves the summer past; many a tear had been shed and raucous bellow of sorrow uttered before the troll's carcass had been thrown into the Bone Pit. Now a new clay-shaper would need to be trained up, and there were no suitable young trolls to take up the role – except for little Wargen, who was disqualified by way of having had both his arms eaten by a wyvern at an early age.

Glurg, as the tribe's only Daylight Face, had been called before Chief Bone and given the accounting of the task. Glurg had asked, how would he find the clay-shaper?

Chief Bone had clouted him in the ear, and reminded Glurg of the Prophecy, and said that the spirit would guide him.

And although it wasn't much of a spirit – being basically rum made from peat and the bits of a badger that even a troll wouldn't eat – it had guided him. He had woken up here. He was lying under a bush, and his mouth tasted of badgers.

* * *

Thus Glurg lurked in the rhododendrons, watching the meowbeast.

The meowbeast in turn watched the door.

The door watched nothing, that he could see.

A car backed out of the driveway. Glurg ignored it; he had been out in the World before and knew that cars made formidable foes. They had no flesh for the devouring.

Time passed. The meowbeast remained, staring at the house, near where Glurg was lurking. It occasionally wrinkled its nose at the disgusting smell that was hanging around the neighbourhood.

Eventually, the car came back. The shadows returned, and the cool night let Glurg relax a little. Trolls – even the Daylight Faces – hated the touch of the sun beyond all else.

A wizard appeared – a beardface, this one, older than even Gorcus had been when he fell to six puny wolves – and used a tool to plunge the street into complete darkness.

Gorcus grinned into the pitch black night. Now _here_ was a beardface he could share a flagon of badger with.

The beardface spoke, and the meowbeast suddenly turned into a witch – a stoneface this one. Glurg's brow creased at all this transforming, and he girded his loins for a fight should the bush he was under turn out to be another wizard. Tonight, his loins bristled with aggression. Brave would be the foe who stood before them.

The beardface and stoneface spoke together for a long time. Glurg knew a little Language, and picked up some scattered phrases. One fact stood out. The Dark One was gone. Hmmm. Thoughts collided in his brain like continental drift. _That explained the giants offskiing_, Glurg realised. _Not to trust the rancorous behemoth!_

The troll's ears twitched at a sound in the clouds. After a while, the humans noticed it too, and managed to look in the right direction.

A beast dropped from the sky – a growling steed of metal bones and dark skin and horns, on two noxious wheels. Clearly the spawn of a human car and some unscrupulous hoofbeast, Glurg decided. He looked with grudging approval at the large rider who had tamed it, and fought down the urge to greet him via traditional impromptu wrestling match (as the majesty of the newcomer's stomach demanded).

There was more Language, and then the bulky rider passed forth a bundle of skins. The beardface and stoneface bent forward. Glurg lifted his frame a little so he could see too. A chrysanthemum that had been flattened under his rancid hide for the better part of the day took the opportunity to commit seppuku.

Glurg's eyes were fixed on the bundle. Inside it was a baby human, fast asleep. His hair was black, and above his eye was a vivid red cut.

* * *

The old humans and their beast-riding chieftain fussed about the child for a while, placing it on a small ledge by the door apparently designed for just that purpose, and then disappeared. The balls of light returned to the road-poles, and Glurg shielded his eyes, wincing.

After a while, the troll crept forward to stare into the little human's sleeping features. He picked up the bundle carefully, and marvelled at the softness of the skins wrapped around the child.

Yes, it was definitely the one. "Him who sun him stop him no," Glurg repeated to himself, casting a wary eye at the crescent moon that hung above them. The prophecied child had to be a sun-dweller, and this one had the mark, as was foretold.

Yes - a potter, just when the tribe needed one. He would need to be trained up, though. Glurg scratched his head, absent-mindedly eating the square of parchment addressed to the Dursley family that had been tucked into the blankets. Then he tucked the boy into the reeking crook of one arm and loped away.

He wasn't sure he knew the way. Hopefully the spirit would guide him. He still had half an ox bladder left.

* * *

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive. A mile away and still accelerating, Harry Potter's nose twitched at the smell now pervading his blankets. He slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by the guttural coos of Glurg's current mate as she met him at the dirty hide that served as the front door to his cave.

He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter – the boy who lived!"

Oh, what a hero they were imagining.

Oh, what a hero they would get.

* * *

**Chapter Two: The Vanishing Snake**

Potter hung the last graphorn skin to dry on the thorn bushes near the river, clapped his hands together, and wandered back up the riverbank. If he finished making Big Meal for Glurg before the sun crept over Far Away Mountain, he might be in time to hear Morku's morning legend at the fire-hole.

Morku was ageing, his limbs shaking more with each sunrise, and soon he would be too old to protest being thrown into the bone pit. Potter wanted to get his horn's worth while he still could. The ten-year-old loved Morku's legending, perhaps more than any other troll child. He had a fascination with the story teller, and combined with Glurg's suspicious verbosity, there was a most precocious child in the making.

Potter paused under a tree to brush back his mane of greasy black hair, revealing several scars, apparently no different from the others scattered about his bulky frame. An old, wide gash from a fall at a young age almost completely obscured a smaller one that was shaped a little like a lightning bolt.

His brow furrowed as he watched several motionless troll children playing Drop in the shade of a distant cliff. Each one held a large boulder at chest level. If you were the first to drop your rock you lost the game, but if in doing so you successfully dropped it on your opponent's foot, you won. It was a game of even greater nuance than that, though: if you came out on top in the ensuing fight, the match would be considered a draw.

Potter didn't play Drop any more – now that his peers were twice his size, he was always outclassed. None could make fire as fast as him, though, or see the shapes in the mud and clay that could be brought forward with time and careful hand movements. And none could withstand the sun as he could.

A noise from the branches overhead made Potter jump, but it was only a pair of squirrels fighting. "Damn their acorn scandal," he muttered to himself in scorn, searching for a rock to throw. "Away, branch rats!"

He froze, coming face to face with a scaly intruder in the bushes. This high up the mountain, snakes were rare, but he had seen skins, and warnings of them had been legended in his ear. The bite of big wrigglers could be painful in the face.

"Be off, belly-scurryer," he said carefully, backing away. His hand continued to grasp for a sharp rock.

The snake blinked, and opened its mouth. "A sssspeaker," it murmured. "A sssspeaker amongsssst trollssss, ssssuch a sssstrange ssssight to ssssee."

Potter fell backward onto the trail in surprise, barely noticing the pain as a stone grazed his wrist.

"Split-tongue wriggler placing whisper in my ear!" His vision wobbled a little with shock. The world _wasn't meant_ to work like this.

The snake slithered out after him. "Curioussss indeed. Do you ssssupposssse, sssspeaker, tha-"

There was a nasty crunch, as of a sharp rock against a snake's skull, and the voice stopped.

Potter recovered his weapon, clubbed the wriggler two more times to be sure, and dragged it back to the caves. Within minutes, the snake had vanished into the big cooking cauldron.

The tribe had held off on eating humans while Potter was learning the clay-shaper's art. The logic, though bemoaned by many, was flawless. It had been reasoned out over the course of several months by Chief Bone and Glurg and Morku the Story-teller, the clan's main – and, truth be told, only – thinkers.

Nobody was to eat Potter because he was to be the new clay-shaper, and a Daylight Face too. Potter was the clay-shaper of Bone Clan. Bone Clan was a clan of trolls. Potter was a troll. Potter was a human. First Finger Rule was, No Troll Eat No Troll. _Therefore_, no human was to be eaten in case they were in a clan of trolls. Kwed.

A few knocking of heads, and this startling new practise had been accepted by Bone Clan. In recent years, any stray humans that were caught on the mountain had the idea explained to them in Language during the questioning, and unfortunately _every single one_ had proven to be from another tribe of trolls. It was lucky they had started asking, or First Finger Rule would have been broken any number of times!

_Of course, no precedent for snake as anything but meat!_ Potter thought. _No grumble to be had there._ The boy let loose a fell chortle as he stirred the stew.

There were heavy footfalls, and a vast shape blocked out the morning light for a moment. Glurg stomped in, throwing his baby-elephant-skull helmet into the corner with a clatter.

"Sun up!" he declared cheerfully. "He-Who-Burns sit pretty in der sky! I shun der unscrupulous light dat maim der face-skin without repent!"

Potter nodded back to him, and the troll deposited a sack on the ground with a squelch. "Harvest of meat?"

"Ho yuss. Big harvest of prongbeast in der night. We take Big Meal and then Glurg commit dread snooze."

"So it be." Potter dipped two bowls – one big, one small – into the rusty cauldron.

Glurg joined him in the customary Breaking Of Wind before Big Meal, and then they ate in silence.

Afterwards, Potter's foster father smacked his lips in appreciation. "Dat stick hair on der ribcage! Do Glurg detect slight hint of rancorous hedge-pig and wily ground-wiggler?"

Potter nodded proudly.

"Dat my good boy! You keep hedge-pig prickleskin for to make stylish hat?"

"Yes, Glurg." Potter jerked a thumb at a corner of the cave thronging with blowflies.

"An' good-er yet!" After a hair-ruffling that sent the human child staggering, Glurg sprawled himself across the soft, flat rocks that had been placed there for that purpose.

Potter roared merrily at the mightiness of the snooze his foster father wrestled with. Then he dusted his hands together. Time for clay gathering.

And for Bone Clan, it was another day.

* * *

**Chapter Three: Appetisers From No One**

Summer, the haughtiest season, was just beginning to climb the mountain when the first owl came. So late at night that it was early in the morning, as the young-bloods wrestled around the fire-hole, it winged silently through the clearing in the lee of the cliff towards the caverns.

A hand shot up and seized it in mid-flight. "A meal delivered!" the new owner hooted. "Greetings of my throat, delicious feather-bat!" He ate it quickly before a bigger troll could take it off him, and kicked the remains into the fire, where for a brief moment the words _Harry Potter, cave number four, Place of Bones, Very Close Mountain, Wales_ could be seen before the smoke rose around it.

The next owl was pounced on by Chief Bone's pet manticore.

The third one made it as far as the correct cave when meaty fingers, tipped with nails clumsily painted fuchsia, clamped around its leg. Goarag Daughter-Of-Blouff devoured the creature, letter and all, without waking up. Then she turned over, spooning Glurg like two misshapen grey garlic sausages that had fallen into the cutlery drawn by mistake.

After that, the owls stopped trying. They showed up, circled the graphorn pens, gave a little shrug that was the avian equivalent of "blow this for a game of soldiers", and flew back.

This went on for a week – not that any of the Bone Clan noticed – and then something changed.

* * *

**Chapter Four: The Keeper Of The Keys**

Potter was awakened before dawn from a delicious dream of crunchy centipedes. Raised voices were echoing off the cliff face outside. He wrapped the elk skin around himself and staggered out of the cave, rubbing sleep from his eyes with the knuckles of one hand.

He looked at the stranger with interest. The broad, wildly bearded man had one of the young-bloods in a headlock, while another climbed on his back and grappled with his head. The other young hunters who had stayed up into the start of daylight stood in a circle hooting and hollering and swivelling their fists in the air. Off to one side, a wheeled steed of metal and black hide was humming to itself, hesitantly admired by several trolls of various ages and genders.

As more and more of the clan emerged, Potter automatically climbed on top of a boulder, where he would get a better view of the tussle. It also meant there was less chance he would be crushed by someone's feet. That was never a fun thing to heal.

Chief Bone's unmistakeable bellow brought the proceedings to a halt. A scree slope in a distant valley panicked, packed its boulders, hopped into an avalanche and fled. Even the rising sun might have flinched a little.

The wild-beard dropped the two trolls and brushed himself off sheepishly while Chief Bone strode towards him.

There was a brief altercation as the two met, ending in a double-take from the newcomer as Chief Bone gestured to Potter. Beetle eyes glinted with recognition. Then there were more words. Potter blinked. It _sounded_ almost like the man was trying to speak Language.

Then the behemoth pushed through the crowd to speak to him directly. "Bly-mee, a-ree-pot-tuh, oi av-int seen yeh since yeh wos nee-ii taw ar nee-zill. Hav-int yeh juss sprang up?"

After a moment, the words fell into place. It _was_ a type of Language, Potter realised. The stranger was still speaking it.

"Cor, I reckon someone 'ere needs a bath." The mountain of a man waved a hand in front of his nose. "No offence."

"Who be you?" Potter asked. From his perch on the boulder, the stranger's dark eyes were level with his own.

"Oh, sorry, should o' introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid. Groun'sman an' Keeper o' Keys at 'ogwarts."

"..._What_ be you?" The Rubeushagrid only stood out as a slightly smaller and _much_ hairier blocky shape amidst the amassed wrinkly pyramid shapes. He wasn't a troll, though.

There was a long pause, which the man spent not quite meeting Potter's eyes. "Well, I'm a repr'sentative of th' school, o' course. Dumbledore sent me special – real concerned, he's bin, Harry."

"He has been hairy?"

"No, Harry. That's you, eh."

Potter looked at the Rubeushagrid dubiously. "Elf tricks. My eyes whisper it is you that is hairy."

"No, I – gallopin' gargoyles. I'm sayin' – yer _Harry_. Harry Potter."

"So you're... Hairy Rubeushagrid?"

The man in the overcoat shook his head in frustration, and then paused. His lips moved silently, and then he raised a mitt to thump his chest. "Jus' Hagrid. That's me. Hagrid." His fist uncurled and a finger pointed at Potter. "Harry. That's you. Harry."

"No. Me Potter."

"Harry Potter."

Potter ran a hand through his locks. "A bit," he admitted. "Me suppose. No lip-bristle like Glurg have though. And Hairier Hagrid, still. How comes you here?"

Hagrid shrugged, giving up on the previous thread of conversation. "Like I said, repr'sentin' th' school. Seems yeh weren't getting' yer letters – so I'm here to tell yeh all about _Hogwarts_."

* * *

"Is topical cream for dat," came Glurg's voice, and Potter felt two giant fingers come to rest on his shoulders. "For when after you forget to wear ferret for protection. We make fresh from wasp stings ground inna paste with hoofbeast bladder if you want. Five an' half horns, no trouble."

"Eh? I'm talkin' about Harry 'ere goin' ter 'ogwarts School o' Witchcraft an' Wizardry," Hagrid said, looking at Glurg like the troll was daft. Potter appreciated his father's humour, though. None of the other trolls spoke enough Language to really follow it.

He had heard of Hogwarts. Morku had legended about it sometimes, in the sagas of battles fought against goblins and giants and wizards.

After a moment, Potter realised what this meant. Chief Bone did at about the same time, and loomed forward out of the entertained crowd.

"Ohhh, you who are called Hagrid, you conniver of child-wizardry. You is _not_ to take our potter, just when he getting good."

Potter beamed at the Chief's compliment. In front of him, Hagrid and Chief Bone began to debate the proposition. The discussion involved a lot of what was, to trolls, body language.

"We need potter to make cup for water and dish for coals," opined Chief Bone, his point subtly underscored by getting Hagrid in a half-nelson and hitting him with a rock.

"'e's gotta learn magic," Hagrid grunted. "'e's Harry bleedin' Potter." He seemed to realise that his point had been weakened by the ineffectualness of his kicking, and drove an elbow into Chief Bone's gut, to scattered applause. "Besides, it can be dangerous iffen a lad doesn't learn ter control 'is magic! We can't have that."

The troll recovered and bodyslammed him. "We work hard keep him alive twofive years! He stay with us, learn ways of wily troll. Ooh, I sever your giblets withholding delay!"

The onlookers hooted at this, stomping their encouragement or chanting in support of their current favourite. Handfuls of horns changed hands as bets were made over who would win the debate.

"Yeh'll just draw a bunch o' attention from folks," Hagrid said, lashing out at the troll's face. "Yeh don't want that, do yeh? Wizards traipsin' up th' mountain ter see what's goin' on with Harry?" There was a thoughtful susurration from the crowd – trolls didn't care much for trespassers, _or_ wizards, and the split lip was a rhetorical gambit they could appreciate.

"We crush their skull parts with impunity! Boy need manly apron and club of clay wrangler, not little wizard dress and little wizard club!"

Hagrid managed to trip the chieftain, and pressed his advantage. "His parents woulda wanted him ter go!" Trolls didn't really have a sense of family tradition, but the punch to the gut made this rebuttal surprisingly convincing.

A retaliatory uppercut sent one of Hagrid's teeth flying. "Elf spit! He not need wizarding! He become best Daylight Face of Bone Clan, best of all troll clan!"

"He's got ter learn ter be a human, 'e can't be one of yer trolls forever!"

"Says you!"

There was a stalemate, both conversational combatants circling each other and puffing. Both had made good points. There was much pulling of ears from the crowd, displacement activity from fists itching to make it a free-for-all discussion.

"He who teach him learn him no," said Chief Bone quietly.

"I'm not leavin' without 'im," Hagrid said with a scowl.

The chieftain's arms slowly dropped to his sides from the 'pounce' position. Then a cunning look ascended the rugged slope of his face. "A judgement!" he called aloud.

"A judgement!" the tribe roared back good-naturedly. Those who knew what the Language meant looked thoughtful or excited. Others tried to work out what this meant for their bets.

Chief Bone waited until the various attempts to echo his words had ground to a halt, and then looked directly at Hagrid. "You wrestle Old Mother Of The Crags, and we see which way judgement goes."

The wild-beard shrugged. "If that's wha' it takes."

Potter drooped. Hagrid had seemed fun. It didn't seem at all fair that he had to die so soon.

* * *

Those of Bone Clan who dared brave the watery dawn light of what looked like an overcast day – mostly the young-bloods and the grizzled hunters – were forming up in a loose pack.

Potter watched as Hagrid whistled a shrill note, and his metal steed leapt into the air, shrinking in size and slipping into his pocket. Things like that... Maybe learning wizarding would be fun.

Except now he wouldn't be, of course.

Old Mother Of The Crags wasn't a member of Bone Clan, _per se_. After all, there was First Finger Rule to consider. No Troll Eat No Troll, and Old Mother had eaten more trolls than anything anyone had ever heard of.

And that was just the number she'd taken upon herself to catch. The clan's Bone Pit was carved into the side of the mountain near Old Mother's cave for a reason. It was in everyone's best interests that she didn't have to wake up completely for a snack. Every so often, someone annoyed the chieftain enough to be sent to clear the partial skeletons out of the pit and generally tidy up. On most of those days, Old Mother had fresher meat than usual, and the snowline crept down the mountains a little in response.

Potter knew, though, that Old Mother really wasn't so bad, as long as you stayed out of her three-hundred-pace instant death zone. She just slept most of the time. Potter was well aware of the allure presented by having a dire snooze to contend with.

They traipsed out over the slopes, Potter automatically slouching along at the rear.

It had rained in the night, and there was low cloud hanging around; a faint rainbow hung in the air. It meant He-Who-Burns couldn't eyeball the trolls too haughtily with his searing orb, for which they were glad. They showed their appreciation with raucous song and flatulence, the latter of which was strictly the more tuneful sound.

The snowfields stretched above them; the paces lengthened; the path grew steeper. Potter could see out Hagrid near the head of the group, now chatting amiably to Morku the storyteller.

The wavering rainbow met the mountain in the valley below. There was a staccato giggling drone from the crag in the rock where it fell. Potter paused as his keen gaze lit upon a flickering emerald mass in a crevasse, signalling the rare presence of a wild leprechaun colony. He mentally marked the location of the jiggery-menace nest so that he could return later with one of his clay pots and juice them for their golden honey.

"Potter! Keep up!"

Oops. He hastened after his foster father.

Old Mother lived on Fairly Close Mountain, next to Surprisingly Deep Ravine. It took almost an hour at a troll's stride to get there, but Potter was used to long treks. He had done far tougher hikes while lugging fallen trees up the mountain for the fire-pit.

Old Mother's cavern lay dead ahead, separated from the group by five hundred paces of packed snow and sharp rock. Her colossal form was faintly visible in the gloom within.

The trolls arrayed themselves about the landscape, introducing fists to faces in order to get the best ringside seats. Their collective breath hung in the freezing air, adding to the cloud that currently wrapped Fairly Close Mountain like the jaunty scarlet-dyed hedgehog skin wrapped Morku's withered pate.

There were no bets being taken on this one.

Potter scrambled up Glurg's back. His eyes flickered to Chief Bone, who stood to one side, rubbing his gut and clearly already gloating.

"Alrigh' then," said Hagrid, taking off his scarf and folding it neatly on a rock.

Chief Bone grinned, and then cupped his hands and _hollered_. It took a long time for the echoes to die away.

Eyes flickered open within the cave.

Hagrid took on a calculating look and strode forward, over the packed ice.

Potter wondered if they would even hear a scream.

* * *

"...How'd I do, then? Isn't she jus' _precious_?" Hagrid's voice featured a note of adoration that was more than a little out of place as he tickled the twelve-headed cryohydra under one of her leviathan chins.

It was an open question whether Old Mother could actually feel his fingers through her obsidian scales, but even if it was just the tone of voice the ice monstrosity was reacting to, she rumbled contently, and swished her tail, kicking up a cloud of permafrost.

Her dozen heads drooped a little lower. Each was the size of Hagrid himself, and some bore faint scars from long-forgotten fights with dragons and giants.

A strand of drool dropped to the ground from one of Old Mother's mouths. The substance – a heady mix of various volatile gases that couldn't quite decide whether they were a superdense liquid or an ultracold plasma – hit the rock, which promptly did something that was neither melting nor sublimating. A spray of anti-boiling droplets scattered around, snap-freezing and leaving frosty pockmarks wherever they hit the ground.

Hagrid brushed arctic condensate off his greatcoat with fingers that were starting to go blue. "Bit of a softy really, isn't she? Right luvly creature, though."

Chief Bone was sulking. "I make uproarious party with his ghost," he muttered darkly to nobody in particular.

Hagrid looked over at Potter, who was standing a cautious dozen paces away – along with the other trolls, and trying not to befoul his pants in terror – along with the other trolls.

The beefy man's bushy eyebrows jostled together, perhaps for warmth. "Well then 'arry Potter. A few minutes more with this 'ere beautiful lady an' then I reckon we'd best be off. What do yeh say?"

"Where to?" Potter managed. Old Mother had sleepily closed all twenty-four of her eyes, and one of her legs had started rhythmically thumping the ground. It was getting a little hard to keep his balance.

"Why, Diagon Alley, o' course. I reckon yeh might make quite th' impression."

* * *

**Author's postulates:**

→ The troll prophecy and several minor bits of vocabulary in this diversion are from Discworld, of course.

→ Other troll names, mannerisms, a lot of quirky vocabulary, and even some partial quotes come from: (a) the legend of Bravemule, (b) jbern's classic _Bungle in the Jungle_, and (c) a couple of _WTF, D&D!?_ columns. Check them out.

→ Like it? Hate it? Want to crusade for me to work it into the actual story? Leave a review!


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